


Sleeping With The Enemy

by pippen2112



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Abusive Locington, Abusive Relationships, Abusive Tucklix, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Emotional Infidelity, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Slow Burn Tuckington, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 14:52:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10993188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippen2112/pseuds/pippen2112
Summary: In a world where everyone has two names on their wrists--one for your soulmate, one for your nemesis--do you ever know if you've truly found "the one" or if you're just sleeping with the enemy?Coffeeshop AU, slow burn Tuckington.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic as a birthday/Christmas/graduation gift for my good friend, k$, who offered me a delightfully awful prompt for a RvB soulmate story. You can blame her for this.
> 
> Special thanks to cleverest-url for beta reading on such short notice. :)
> 
> Warning: This fic contains two very different types of abusive relationships (Tucklix and Locington). Including (but not limited to): physical, emotional, financial, sexual, verbal, and psychological abuse. Please take heed before proceeding. If you have any concerns or queries, feel free to message me on AO3 or on tumblr (@birdsbeesandlemonadetrees)
> 
> Side note: There is no dub-con or non-con for Tuckington. Those two idiots just wanna be loved. I don't think that's too much to ask

Chapter 1

 

_...April..._

 

"You're fired."

Those are the two worst words ever. Of all time.

Wash tears off his apron and wads it up around the dumb generic name tag the managers hand out at the start of every shift, something bland and uninteresting like Will or Joe, the basic, inoffensive, commonplace names all service professionals hide behind. Wash hates the habit, just like he hates the long sleeves he's not allowed to roll up, or the culture of pseudonyms he's stuck in. All because of two dumb little words marked on his wrists.

Not "you're fired." That would be weird. Super weird. Who the fuck would name their kid "fired?" Or get stuck with a soulmate named "you're?" Wash honestly can't tell which one was weirder.

Tossing his apron and name tag at the manager's head--and yeah, he throws a little harder than necessary--Wash makes a beeline for the door. He undoes the stupid tie he spent twelve dollars on for his uniform. Twelve bucks he could've put toward food or rent or another session with his therapist. One of those intensive sessions she keeps suggesting. And he lasted three weeks before his temper got the better of him because some drunk asshole sitting with a scary big dude and a sharp-tongued weasel recognized his server pseudonym from her wrist and demanded a confirmation. In public.

Wash turns toward the nearby bus stop, grimacing. Who knows when the bus will be around next. Maybe he should've taken the time to learn to drive, to get over his thing about cars. Seems like something he should've learned in the service, but Wash just slipped through the cracks. He slumps on the bus stop bench and pinches the bridge of his nose. Honest to God, he does not have time for this shit.

The bench vibrates as someone drops down beside him. Wash checks through the side of his eye. It's the big scary guy from the restaurant. He's just a little older, early thirties maybe, with long dark hair and a wicked X scarred across his face. He's dressed in a nice suit, a heavy coat folded over his arm, neatly polished shoes. He looks like the picture of success. _So what's this guy doing waiting for the bus?_ Wash stiffens.

When the guy keeps staring just long enough to make Wash uncomfortable, Wash curls his hands into fists and mutters, "Can I help you?"

The guy starts, his eyes tightening as he looks down at his lap. "That was impolite of me."

Wash's mouth twitches. "Can I help you?" He repeats, enunciating more clearly.

"I wanted to offer my apologies. That woman should not have made such a spectacle of herself. Unfortunately, you paid the price for her blunder."

Wash's cheeks flush. He gnaws the inside of his cheek and shrugs. "What can you do?"

"Can I offer you a ride home?"

Brow furrowed, Wash leans away, ready to bolt if this guy puts a toe out of line. "Why?"

"Because my business associate lost you your livelihood," he says bluntly, his words so sincerity it leaves Wash winded. "It is the very least I can do."

Wash studies him for a few moments. A habitual frown weighs on his lips, but he doesn't look sad, just tired. His stern gray eyes look surprisingly soft around the edges. He looks tough, sure--he probably could've given Maine or North a run for their money--but this guy, whoever he is, doesn't look dangerous. Just worn through. Like Wash. It's a risk, but really, can this day get any worse?

With a faint nod, Wash says, "Okay."

#

_...August..._

Tucker hasn't had a night out in ages. Between finals closing in around him and picking up extra shifts at the cafe, he hasn't had a chance to so much as think about partying. But with his summer school exams behind him and graduation on the horizon, Tucker thinks that tonight had better be a damn celebration.

He dons his favorite jeans, the ones that do wonderful things for his already flawless ass and an aqua shirt that Kai calls "hella sexy", and drags his friends down to the pool hall.

The atmosphere is smoky, the band playing is just good enough, and the drinks are so cheap Tucker wants to cry from happiness. He, Church, and Caboose play a few rounds of pool--they will never admit it, but Caboose is scary good at sinking impossible shots, his tongue perpetually stuck out the side of his mouth as he focuses.

At some point, Church wanders off chasing a blonde in a leather jacket with a black eye, and Caboose disappears, as he does every time he tags along when Tucker and Church go out only to show up the next morning with a story Tucker and Church only half believe. By then, Tucker is posting up at the bar, eyeing hotties and striking out every time he opens his mouth. When he puts his foot in his mouth around one particular blonde bombshell, the bartender laughs.

Tucker glares. "You got something to say, Donut?"

Chuckling as he uncaps another beer for Tucker, Donut says, "I give you an A-plus in enthusiasm, but a D in charm."

"Hey! I'd like to see you do better."

"No way, Jose. This hole is off the market. I'm not gonna risk my relationship just to prove a point, not when Frank and I have date night right around the corner and a fresh bottle of massage oil to break in."

Tucker shudders. He knows way too much about his friend's sex life. Not that Donut doesn't have the subtlety of a bulldozer.

Donut goes on. "See, Tucker, you're going for the wrong people. Sure, they're attractive, but none of them are looking for a quickie."

"And I am?"

Donut gives him a look so soaked in sass, it practically screams "bitch please" complete with a snappy hair flip.

Tucker flushes and explains, "I mean, I _am_ a love machine, but I wanna find my match as much as everyone else."

To bring home his point, Tucker waves his wrists at Donut, his bracelets securely tied over his marks. After all, Tucker's only human. He looks at the marks daily and gets an ache in his craw that even excessive amounts of sex couldn't drown out. No, Tucker trusts the universe to bring Isaac or David, whoever isn't an evil little shit, into his life when he's good and ready. But that doesn't mean his libido is just gonna snooze in the meantime. He's got needs.

Donut's mouth purses. "Yeah, but hitting on every hottie who crosses your path may not be the best way to convince the future Mr. or Mrs. Right of your sincerity. If you're gonna dish out pick-up lines, you gotta aim for a better target."

Tucker scoffs. "Well by all means, maestro, if you've got a better target in mind, aim me away."

Without missing a beat, Donut cocks his head sideways. "Fellow in black and orange at the end of the bar."

Tucker casually stretches and follows Donuts directions, but the guy's hard to miss. Piercings. Ink peeking up along the column of his throat. Orange highlights. He's hot in a scary sort of way. Tucker's pulse quickens. Yeah, he's scarier than Tucker's usual type, but then again, so is Kai, and she's all kinds of crazy in the sack.

"What's he drinking?" Tucker asks.

"Whatever's cheap."

Tucker nods, trailing his fingers off the condensation on his fresh beer bottle. "Give him another of whatever he's got now."

Grinning, Donut bows out and makes his way down the bar, creating an alarmingly green cocktail with remarkable grace. When he slides the drink across the bar to Scary, Donut leans close and throws a look down toward Tucker. Scary follows Donuts gaze and gives Tucker a lingering once over, his gaze turning heated. He raises the drink to toast Tucker and takes a long drink, eyes drifting closed and throat bobbing as he swallows.

Tucker gulps. Going flaccid to erect in point three six seconds flat leaves him light headed and excited. Tucker saunters down the bar to make nice with Scary. Maybe if he's lucky he'll get to see exactly how far down those tattoos go.

#

_...October..._

Wash hears a sharp breath behind him and freezes. _Shit._

He was throwing on a nicer shirt since Locus had surprised him with dinner reservations for their six month anniversary, one of those classy restaurants Wash hadn't set foot in since he was a kid. And stupid idiot, he'd forgotten to close the door while changing. And he'd left his back to the door. His scarred up, hideous excuse for a spine.

 _All too quickly, Wash feels the sun beating down on him, his ears ringing hard and his nose full of smoke and dust from_ _the explosion. He's hot all over, but his hands turn to ice. He_ _can't_ _hear, can't_ _see_ , _can't_ _move_. _He's_ _dying_. _Or_ _worse_. _And_ _there's_ _nothing_ _he_ _can_ _do_ _to_ _stop_ _it_.

Wash shakes hard, snapping back to his crappy studio apartment, his gray button down clenched between his fists, seams straining like it'll tear if he shifts wrong.

Locus can see his back. Locus can see his scars.

Before Wash can throw on his shirt and distract Locus from the mess of abuse etched into his skin, a warm, rough hand wraps around his bicep and slides downward, stopping inches above his wrist. Wash shudders. He's usually so careful to keep him marks hidden, especially after his backward-minded parents caught sight of two masculine names marked on his skin-- _"a male nemesis is perfectly understandable, but a male soul mate? Absolutely unacceptable."_ He was pulled from his school and shipped off to a military academy without a second thought, hidden away and quietly abandoned until Freelancer recruited him. Since the night his parents jabbed his wrists accusingly, no one's seen much less touched Wash's marks except for his army recruitment officer and the Freelancer medics. And now, Locus's fingertips sweep across his skin, stroking Wash's left wrist reverently.

Wash goes perfectly still. Aren't people supposed to politely ignore soul marks? Pretend they don't exist until invited to see. But the simple touch sends a shiver up Wash's spine.

Locus slides his hand down and off Wash's fingertips, stretching out his arm and unbuttoned his sleeve. Before Wash can react, Locus meticulously rolls down the fabric, revealing his own marked wrist.

Wash's eyes bulge.

 _David._ That's his name, written in his same pointy scrawl, the name he only ever gives on official documents. Locus has his name, his handwriting, on his body.

His breath catches in his throat. Locus pulls Wash flush against his chest, his fingertips leaving burning trails along his bare skin. He kisses up Wash's left shoulder, up the crook of his neck, up to the hollow of his ear. His lips are hot and insistent.

"Sam?" Wash breathes, uneasy despite the evidence.

Locus growls possessively, breathing in the scent of Wash's hair and shuddering. "David. David. My David." He nips. Goosebumps rise along Wash's skin. "I'm never letting you go."

Wash melts.

#

 

Jesus Christ, who the hell is pounding on his door at--Tucker checks his phone--at 3:17 in the goddamn morning on a random Tuesday? He throws back his bedspread and trudges down to the front door. Honestly, he has to be up for his shift in like 2 hours. He does not have time for some drunk piece of shit banging on the wrong door.

Tucker throws open his door, exhausted rage vibrating down into his fingertips. "Dude, do you have any idea what time it is? Some of us need our beauty sleep."

Out in the hall, clutching a laundry hamper filled with odds and ends and a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, is Felix. What the hell? He and Felix have gone on a few dates--does it really count as a date if one of you brings over pizza and you fuck on the couch with your clothes still on? And yeah, they get along well enough, and Felix does this thing with his tongue that makes Tucker weak at the knees, but showing up unannounced in the middle of the night is, like, thirtieth date stuff, not third.

But before Tucker can say as much, he takes a good look at Felix. He's wearing a black sweatshirt that's two sizes too big for him, his nose rosy and chafed, and his eyes keep darting away from Tucker, big and glossy and lifeless as doll's eyes. It's so wrong Tucker's taken aback.

"Shit," Tucker says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "What happened?"

"I got kicked out," Felix says, ducking his head meekly, ashamedly. "Can I crash on your couch?"

"Yeah, sure. Here, lemme." Tucker grabs the hamper out of Felix's hands and notices for his wrists are bandaged. "You okay?"

Felix cocks an eyebrow, his expression turning momentarily disbelieving. Right, that's not what they do. He and Felix aren't the caring sort. They're just having fun. They don't do this sentimental crap. Tucker backtracks quickly. "Just, don't want you bleeding on my stuff."

Scoffing, Felix shoulders his way inside. "I don't think it'd be me bleeding that would ruin your shit."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Tucker," Felix says rather seriously, "I mean this from the bottom of my heart. Your place is shitty."

"Yeah, but ladies love it. Makes 'em feel dirty. Bow chicka bow wow."

"And here I wondered why you were single."

After a late breakfast and a quickie on the table, Tucker catches sight of Felix changing his bandages in the bathroom. Across his wrists where his soul marks would normally be, Felix has fresh tattoos: on his left wrist, a spray of orange roses, and on his right, a tribalistic design of flames.

Tucker doesn't mention them a week later when the bandages come off and Felix comes home in a new short sleeved shirt. Somehow, it seems like a very, _very_ bad idea.

#

_...November..._

Midway through his leg day routine at the local gym, Wash looks up from his lunges, and his breath stills in his chest.

The guy heading for the treadmills is absolutely gorgeous. Despite the early hour and being outfitted for a workout, his expression looks almost playful. Almond shaped eyes focused in on the path ahead of him. High cheekbones and a jawline Wash would've killed for. Full lips mouthing at his headphones. Clad in a blue tank top and shorts that nicely contrast his dark skin, Wash stares at the guy's arms and chest--nothing overly developed, just a good base with subtle definition. Even if the guy's a little on the short side, he's got solid shoulders, a trim waist, and an ass that makes Wash's mouth go dry.

For all of three seconds, Wash's gut drops and his heart speeds up before he drops his gaze to the floor and clenches his fists. _What are you doing?_ He chastises himself. _You've got a soulmate who freaking adores you. Who asked you to move in with him. Who wants to support you. Why would you go looking at someone,_ anyone _else?_

Wash turns his back to the treadmills and adds another set to his workout. By the time his workout's over, he's sweaty and sore, and the dread-locked Adonis is pointedly absent from his thoughts.

#

_...November..._

When his alarm goes off the Sunday after Thanksgiving, Tucker groans into his pillow. Stupid coffee shop. His days off are few and far between, and even if the world ended, he'd still get called into work. The café just swallows all his time, especially now that he's graduated and doesn't have classes to keep him away.

Arms curl around his waist and a warm body spoons up against him from behind. "I wanna throw that against the wall," Felix murmurs into his ear.

"Wanna throw you against a wall," Tucker jokes.

Felix hums against the nape of his neck. "Promises, promises."

Scoffing, Tucker rolls sideways and smashes the snooze on his alarm clock. He can take a few more lazy minutes for himself. Even if he's late and Church gives him shit, Tucker has covered for his coworkers so many times, he probably owes most of last semester's tuition to Grif. He plops back down in bed and snuggles back against Felix's chest, and gets a boner to the small of his back.

"Sheesh, are you ever not horny?"

"Tucker, Tucker," Felix chuckles as he grinds his hips forward. "I'm always open to new opportunities."

 Tucker laughs, though he remembers falling asleep last night in an empty bed. Felix is warm against his back, but he smells like cigarettes and booze and something floral and feminine Tucker can't place. But he's probably just imagining things, right?

"You got time?" Felix asks, pairing the question with a nibble to the shell of his ear.

Tucker nods and angles his hips toward Felix. But instead of grabbing the bottle of lube and going to town, Felix manhandles him onto his back and ducks down to swallow him. Tucker keens and bucks up. He's always been super sensitive when his partners go down on him, and Felix attacks everything with such enthusiasm. He pins Tuckers hips to the bed and steadily works him higher and higher, pulling filthy promises out of Tucker with a sweep of his tongue. Felix clamps his hand around the base of Tuckers cock, choking off his orgasm, and then sets in to turn Tucker into a ball of bliss as he pins Tucker's wrists to the bed and slides home in with one punishing thrust.

Tucker is twenty-four minutes late. Church gives him a withering look before screeching at him for fifteen minutes, but Tucker smirks all the way through it. Totally worth it.

#

_...December..._

Wash has a thing about coffee. On the one hand, he's hopelessly addicted, has been since military school, back before he'd learned how to deal with nightmares and crippling exhaustion on a daily basis. On the other hand, he can't make a half-decent cup to save his life. Something his squad learned quickly back during his army days, Wash was _not_ permitted anywhere near the coffee rations. The few miserable times he was left in charge, the coffee ended up weak, full of grounds, or, on days the universe conspired against him, burned. Honest to God charred to the pot. Locus hadn't believed him until Wash tried to program the coffeemaker to brew a pot first thing in the morning, and they woke up to Chernobyl in the kitchen.

It's a nightmare, but Wash just shrugs it off. Such is his life.

So now that Wash is stateside and has some semblance of disposable income, he pays other people to feed his addiction. Which is exactly what he intends when he ducks into Blood Gulch Coffee Co. one winter morning, his head throbbing from too much cedar and too little caffeine. But he's snuck in ahead of the crowd, and there's only one person ahead of him in line, so at least he'll deal with the caffeine deprivation in very short order.

If only the woman in front of him would just pick a drink. She hems and haws over all the options listed on the large blackboard behind the register. "Is the Strawberry Yoohoo served hot or cold?"

"Baby, you're hotter than any drink we serve."

The woman laughs, but Wash barely suppresses his groan. Maybe he picked the wrong café. Maybe he should've just sucked it up and dealt with the peppermint and eggnog crowd at the Starbucks near Locus's apartment. He distracts himself from the less than professional flirting going on at the register by scanning over the chalkboard. Really, they should scale down their menu; the number of drink options is frankly overwhelming, and a lot of the names don't sound appetizing. Not in the slightest. Who names a coffee drink "Dirtbag," or "Tank Lady," and what in God's name is a "Filthy Stinkin' Blue"? Wash frowns. Yeah, he should've just stuck with Starbucks.

"Hey, what's cookin' good-lookin'?"

Wash startles, his gaze snapping to the barista behind the register, and his brain screeches to a halt.

It's Treadmill Guy, the indecently attractive male specimen Wash eyed up at the gym about a month back, the guy he definitely hasn't been thinking about when he gets bored or lonely. Even in a teal apron with a smudge of flour on his dark cheek, he looks good enough to eat. Wash flushes and shakes his head. _Mind your own business, Wash._

Treadmill Guy chuckles. "Yeah, I'm talking to you," he says, nodding at Wash.

 _Huh?_ But Wash finally looks around properly and notices he's at the front of the line, holding up the flow like an idiot. Head ducked, he hurries toward the register.

Grinning, Treadmill Guy says, "Welcome to Blood Gulch Coffee Co. What can I get started for you today?"

For a millisecond, Wash forgets how to words. He just stares at Treadmill Guy, his cheeks going redder by the second. "Huh?"

Treadmill Guy's brow knits. "You know, to drink. Coffee? Tea? Me?"

"Tucker!" a shrill voice shrieks from the kitchen, the word laden with warning.

"Shut up, Church," Treadmill Guy--Tucker, he corrects--hollers over his shoulder. "You're not my supervisor."

"No one bullies my best friend!" yells another voice.

"Shut up, Caboose!" Tucker and the first voice- Church -shout back.

Digging his nails into his palms, Wash forces his gaping mouth shut. "Medium black coffee, please," he says, mostly to interrupt the worker's spat.

Tucker looks back at him, one eyebrow arching toward his hairline. "Black coffee? Really?"

"...yes."

"Not even like a mocha?"

Wash grimaces. Why would you ruin perfectly good coffee with artificial chocolate nonsense? "No. Just black coffee."

"Room for cream and sugar?"

"No," Wash grits out even though his sweet tooth sings at the prospect of sugar. Years in the service broke him of his sugar habit, and he's not willing to be dependent on anything ever again.

As he marks a cup and rings up the order, Tucker comments, "Wow, you must be all kinds of crazy in the sack."

"Excuse me?" Wash practically screams, his voice squeaking into octaves that make his ears hurt. What the fucking hell did his coffee order have to do with his sexual proclivities?

"Hey, no offense intended, babe," Tucker replies. "I just mean you obviously don't get your kicks from your morning pick-me-up."

"So you just assume I'm kinky?" Seriously, why the hell is this Tucker guy just openly speculating about a stranger? A customer? Where does he get off? Nope, on second thought, Wash doesn't wanna know.

"Hey, you said 'kinky,' not me. Whatever, I'm just sayin', I'd still tap that." And the fucker has the audacity to wink as he slides Wash's coffee across the counter.

Wash glares, pays for his coffee with the card Locus gave him for daily expenses, and storms out without so much as a 'thank you.' If it weren't for the pain between his temples, Wash would throw away the coffee out of spite. Instead, he takes a rueful gulp and scalds his tongue.

And even with half his taste buds burned raw, it's still the best damn cup of coffee Wash has had since Florida got discharged.

_Fuck._

#

"And then this bottle blond bitch just screeches up a storm and storms off," Tucker complains as he and Felix blow off some steam after work playing video games. Every few sentences, Felix gives a little grunt of affirmation, but his eyes never shift away from the screen. "I mean, seriously, bitch can't even take a compliment, and doesn't even consider that I don't wanna be there either. Church wasn't happy, but we got paid for the coffee, so there's not much else he can do. God, can you believe it?"

"Yeah, man. Bitches..." Felix trails off.

Tucker's mouth pinches shut. God, sometimes he just talks too damn much. No wonder Felix sometimes gets his moods where he needs to be anywhere but the apartment.

On screen, Tucker's character goes down with a face full of lead. Instead of respawning, he slides off the couch and shoulders his way between Felix's thighs. As he works down Felix's pants, the game continues in the background, shooting and shrieks and sharp commands. Tucker takes Felix's half hard dick in hand and works it to full hardness while mouthing at his balls.

Only then does the game pause and does Felix thread his hand into Tucker's hair and sigh. "Damn, your mouth."

_Damn, my mouth._

#


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 

_...January..._

 

"Oh my God, where are all the people?" Tucker complains as he paces back and forth behind the counter. Seriously, it's never this empty at eight o'clock on a Wednesday. Most mornings he barely gets a second to breathe, much less actually gripe about business. It's eerie.

Church groans from a table nestled in the back corner. He looks up over his laptop and fort of textbooks and glares. "Tucker, for the thousandth time, I don't care. Now quit interrupting me. I've got a deadline."

"Yeah, and you're the asshole who decided to come into work on your day off."

Church throws him another withering glare before ducking back behind his laptop. Tucker rolls his eyes. Of course Church doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything that isn't his robotics thesis. Or Tex. Or not caring. Church has opinions about his apathy.

But Tucker is saved from throwing more sass at Church by the bell over the front door chiming. He puts on his not-so-professional-but-still-super-attentive-and-ready-to-bone face, the one Felix totally swoons over, and turns toward the front.

Fuck.

It's the guy. Bottle Blonde Bitch who shrieked at him three weeks ago for God knows what reason, and now he's just standing in the doorway like an idiot, wearing a gray and yellow hoodie and pair of jeans that cling in all the right places. Damn. Tucker wasn't lying; he would tap that in a heartbeat, if only Bottle Blonde Bitch wasn't such a bitch.

"Hey, welcome back to Blood Gulch," Tucker says, all false cheer and charm; even if he doubts he'll get a tip out of this encounter, practice makes perfect. "Didn't think we'd be seeing you again."

Triple B, as Tucker sometimes refers to him, bristles. His throat tenses. Hell, his everything tenses. Hands, thighs, shoulders, jaw, even the space between his eyebrows knits up tight. Tucker would definitely call it hot if he weren't getting laid on the regular. Triple B stalks up to the register and mutters, "Medium black coffee, please."

Tucker rings up the order, pours the drip coffee into a paper cup, and not so subtly appreciates Triple B's quads. Jesus, does he sew on his jeans every morning? Tucker can only speculate because he knows better than to make an ass out of himself two encounters in a row. But Triple B crosses his arms and glowers, stubbornly silent. Tucker even stretches out filling the cup, just to see if Triple B will say something. Not one word.

"Wow," Tucker says as he snaps a lid on the coffee cup and hands it over, "you do not like talking, huh?"

Brow furrowing, Triple B takes the cup and comments, "I don't mind talking. I'd just rather not talk to you."

Without so much as a 'bye' Triple B marches off, head held high, hands fisted. Tucker gapes after him, quietly wishing he'd written something demeaning like "Goat Fucker" on Wash's cup. And even if Church is in the café, he's not working, so he wouldn't be able to do anything about it. Frowning to himself, Tucker mutters, "Next time."

#

_...January..._

Wash wakes up with the voices of his old teammates ringing in his ears. North's steady reports from his nest in some abandoned hilltop. Maine's curt grunts of affirmation. Connie's even timbre as she talks him through defusing an IED. South's barked accusations in triage while medics picked shrapnel out of his back. _"It's your fault, Wash! All your fault!"_ He curls in around himself, covering his ears, but he can't blot out the harsh words coming from inside his own head. He holds himself so tightly he shakes, and when he feels the bed dip behind him- _Sam's got a big meeting in the morning, he needs to be rested_ -Wash springs out of bed, drags on the first clothes and shoes he can find and just walks.

Normally, he'd go down to the gym and run sprints until his legs turned to jelly and his brain stopped spinning, but every inch of him feels heavier than normal. His eyelids droop, blocking his vision. Even if this side of town is well lit at this unconscionably early hour, Wash can't let himself go so unprotected. He pinches his arm, and the jolt of pain keeps him upright until a familiar illuminated sign catches his attention. Blood Gulch Coffee Co. Coffee. Coffee.

Wash thanks every god he can name that the front door is open and the shop smells like fresh grounds and pastry dough. There are a few squawks and squabbles from the kitchen, but there's no line. He steps up to the counter and fidgets for a moment until a familiar head of dreadlocks ducks out from the kitchen. Tucker. His eyes narrow from Wash to the clock behind the counter. His mouth pinches.

"Are you serving yet?" Wash asks quietly.

"It's gonna be a few minutes," Tucker answers, nodding toward the percolator behind the counter. "First brew is still heating up. You get a..." He trails off.

"Medium black coffee."

"Right." Tucker gives a nervous grin as he rings up the order. "Yeah, we just opened."

 _I'm amazed the place is even open this early._ Wash shakes his head, pays, and murmurs, "I'll wait," before leaning against the counter, arms crossed and shoulders drooping. God, why is there never coffee when he needs it? And why couldn't he just sleep like a goddamn normal human being? Why did his brain do shitty stuff like throw old pain back at him whenever he tried to rest?

_"All your fault!"_

Jaw clenching, Wash forces his eyes wide open and starts pacing the length of the café. His skin itches from the weight of eyes following him. He hates that feeling. Wishes he could press his back to the wall, or curl up under a rock and just go still. Is that so much to ask? Yes, apparently it is.

A flash of bright blue darts in front of him and Wash nearly throws a punch. Thank God he doesn't because Tucker is standing in front of him, slightly bug eyed, holding a medium paper cup out to him, steam wafting out from the lid.

"Here," Tucker says cautiously, holding out the cup like a sacrificial lamb. "Maybe you should sit down."

Wash snatches the cup fast. Faster than generally advised when dealing with hot liquids.

"Easy, Grabby!" Tucker cuts in.

Wash jumps. Actually jumps like a startled cat. His grip on the coffee cup falters, and the cup falls out of his hands. And Wash just watches it tumble. Anticipates the splat against the concrete floor but is too paralyzed to catch it or leap out of the way. The cup hitting the ground sends the lid flying and scalding hot coffee splashing all over his shoes. And Wash has no one to blame but himself. Just like always.

Cheeks flushing at his foible, Wash bolts for the door. In his wake, he hears Tucker grumbling, "Man, someone's got his panties in a twist."

#

_...February..._

It's gonna be a good day today. Tucker just feels it in his bones, energy humming so bright and cheery nothing can put a damper on his spirits. Not Felix griping about the alarm going off. Not the curdled milk in the fridge. Not the stormy sky or the pitter patter of raindrops against the windows. It's a new month, and the possibilities are endless.

Today is gonna be a good day, Tucker vows.

And, of course, who else should show up during the morning rush while he's stuck playing barista and cashier because Church and Sarge are away at a manager's conference- and don't even get Tucker started about that bullshit because Blood Gulch is an independent coffee shop, so why the hell are the owners sending their managers to a conference- who else should walk in from the rain, dripping all over the floor Tucker will have to mop (because Caboose can't be trusted to actually clean and not just re-enact scenes from _Friends_ playing opposite the mop) who else but stupidly attractive Triple B with his dumb sad eyes and ever-knitted brow. Who else would the universe throw at him to harsh Tucker's good day vibes?

But, no, Tucker squares his shoulders and pulls on his brightest smile. He's gonna do his best to make Triple B's day a little less dreary. "Good morning, welcome to Blood Gulch."

Triple B casts a cursory glance over his shoulder, eyeing the gray weather outside. "Yeah, _great_ morning," he comments dryly.

Tucker sucks in a breath through his nose. _Happy thoughts. Even hotties don't get to rain on your parade._ Cheery disposition still in place, Tucker goes on. "What can I get you?"

"Medium black coffee."

"What, again?" Seriously, does this guy even know how to live? Or does he go home to the mothership, charge up for a few days, and return to earth just to befuddle Tucker some more? Honestly, alien robot is the most plausible explanation he's come up with so far; why else would Triple B be such a stunningly hot buzzkill?

Triple B doesn't smile. Just looks over Tucker's shoulder and says, "Well I don't see another coffee counter here."

Mouth pinched into a painfully phony grin, Tucker does his job. Seriously, fuck Triple B and whatever horse he thinks he rode in on. Tucker is so fed up with this guy's shit. He fills a cup for Triple B and sends him on his way. Only after Triple B ducks back out into the sloppy weather does Tucker call, "Hope you choke on it! Just like your mom choked on my dick last night."

Caboose ducks his head out from the kitchen, his lips pursed "That's not very nice. Stupid Tucker."

"Shut up, Caboose."

#

_...February..._

Wash keeps telling himself he's never going back to Blood Gulch. To be fair, he tries really hard. Some mornings he asks Locus to make a full pot before heading off to work. Some mornings he ducks into the Starbucks near the gym. On one occasion he even trekked down to the nearby gas station for a cup and spent the next six hours within twenty feet of his toilet. Still, every couple of days, Wash's big dumb feet drag him back to the café with mismatched chairs and a house blend that leaves him weak at the knees, and every time, Wash vows never again. Never again.

Today, Wash somehow steps inside and finds a half-dozen people in line ahead of him, a broad-shouldered brunette in a royal blue apron mixing coffee behind the counter and, of course, Tucker at the register. Sheesh, does the guy never take a day off? Wash winces, a headache brewing behind his eyes, but he still falls into line and waits his turn.

Much to his surprise, the line moves pretty fast, Tucker and his co-worker moving in sync even though they trade less than complimentary words as they work. Wash begrudgingly admires it. Reminds him of York hogging the comms during missions and North throwing in the occasional good-natured reprimand. Wash's heart clenches. God, he misses them.

"Hey welcome back to Blood Gulch," Tucker says when Wash approaches the register. He reaches toward the cups with his left hand, an uncapped marker at the ready in his right. "Medium coffee, right?"

It takes Wash a second to catch up. He's not too proud of that. "...right..."

"Can I get a name for the order?"

"Wash," he says, the fake name he intended to give sticking in his throat. Instead of dwelling on it, Wash holds out his credit card.

Tucker scrawls on the cup, punching in the order on the register and swiping the card. "We'll call you when it's ready."

Wash's eyes widen ...what? No bullshit? No thinly veiled harassment? It's... surprising to say the least. Maybe now that Blood Gulch has customers, Tucker's learned how to be a professional. Of course, as Wash walks over to the crowd of patrons waiting for their orders, he notices the pretty college aged girl behind him, bags under her reddened eyes and thick glasses pushed up on her head. The moment she steps up to the register, Wash hears Tucker coo, "Hey, baby, coffee's hot, but oh, you're hotter. What'll it be?"

Grousing, Wash crosses his arms and slumps against the wall. Whatever, Tucker can hit on whoever he wants. He can get a hundred cups of piping hot brew thrown in his face for all Wash cares.

Wash gets so caught up in his not-caring, he nearly misses when the brunette in royal blue calls, "Uh, we've got a medium for... Laundry? Mr. Laundry?"

 _Really?!?_ Wash's glare snaps to Tucker who's pointedly paying attention to the businesswoman ordering, but the corner of his mouth is tipped up into a smirk. _Oh, very original._

That's it, he's done. Blood Gulch has lost his business. Wash snatches the cup out of the brunette's hands and makes for the door. But at his first sip of joe, Wash knows he's just lying to himself. Again.

#

_...April..._

"Hey there, Espresso," Tucker says, leering as Wash comes in the café. Today he's sporting his usual jeans and sneakers but in place of his typical sweatshirt, Wash is wearing a sport coat over a blue button up shirt, the fabric straining across his chest, pulling at each buttonhole. Must be celebrating... or something....

Wash frowns, hesitating once again before trudging up to the counter. "...you know that's not my name."

 _Sheesh, does this guy know how to take a compliment?_ Apparently not. Still, Tucker rolls his shoulders and leans forward against the counter. Looks up at Wash through his lashes. Yeah yeah yeah, Tucker's currently sleeping with his roommate, but if Felix is gonna fool around on him and come home smelling like sex and strangers-- Tucker cuts off that train of thought, sends it crashing into the oblivion of his mind. He and Felix aren't exclusive. They've never talked about putting a label on what they do together or apart. Tucker can hit on whoever the fuck he wants, and right now, that's the hot blonde who doesn't know how to smile or dislodge the stick up his ass.

"No, it's gotta be Espresso, 'cuz, babe, you're _so_ fine."

Wash's frown deepens. He crosses his arms. "Really?" His voice screeches into a higher register as he speaks. Just like Church does when Tucker gets caught up daydreaming during shift. The sound gives Tucker the same malicious glee.

"Man, you mocha me crazy. I've been thinking about you a latte."

Face flushed, Wash digs out his wallet, his eyes darting everywhere but at Tucker. "Smooth. Medium black coffee, please."

Tucker rings up the order, but inside he does a happy dance the likes of which have never been seen. He can't stop smirking "I mean, if you keep coming back, I'm gonna start getting ideas."

"Try not to hurt yourself."

"C'mon, babe," Tucker says imploringly as he fills up a cup, "you've gotta feel there's something brewing between us. It's hot and strong and will keep you up all night. Bow chicka bow wow."

If it weren't mid-morning, Tucker would swear he hears crickets chirping through the café. But he doesn't have an unimpressed audience watching him. Just Wash. Who stares. And sheesh, Tucker doesn't think he's ever seen a human being turn quite that shade of red before. _He should definitely get that looked at._

Before Tucker can say as much, Wash grabs his cup of coffee, turns on heel, and just goes.

"You'll be back!" Tucker hollers after him.

The bell over the door dings, but Wash is already out of view. Tucker slumps forward and sighs.

And of course, Church chooses that exact moment to duck out of the kitchen, snickering.

"Don't even, dude," Tucker says.

"Seriously, what did you expect?"

Tucker doesn't even know.

#

_...April..._

 

As he and Locus snuggle on the couch, Wash balls his hands in his armpits and tries to focus on the documentary Locus put on. 'Try' being the operative word.

For the last week and a half, Locus has been working overtime, making sure his client's finances are in order for filing on the fifteenth. As such, Wash has only gotten glimpses of his partner for what feels like ages: hints of his scent on their sheets as Wash tosses and turns before collapsing into an exhausted slumber, fleeting touches when Locus has a spare minute to share a meal, and murmurs of his voice when Locus calls him during breaks. Yes, they live together, and Wash still gets to see Locus every day, but after ten stressful days, Wash would rather spend their free time riding Locus's frankly terrifying dick than watch a nature documentary about butterflies.

And really, it has absolutely nothing to do with Tucker's obnoxious flirtation. Nothing at all. He knows well enough to take everything the barista says with an entire shaker of salt. Tucker's just trying to get a rise out of him, trying to get him to do something embarrassing. Yeah, Wash is smart enough not to fall for that. He's been fooled before, but not this time.

"You're squirming," Locus says just over the muted narration. "Are you uncomfortable?"

Wash blushes. _And you've got a soulmate who's devoted to you,_ his conscience decides to add in. _Don't forget that._ Squirming guiltily, Wash presses closer into Locus's side. "Sorry, I just..."

 _My dick is trying to muscle past my zipper, and you seem more interested in watching frogs fuck than letting me ride you. No big deal._ Wash ducks his head.

Locus's arm curls tighter around his shoulders. Wash isn't small by any means, but Locus's bulk always makes him feel like a kid. Sometimes it's nice, feeling like he doesn't have a care in the world; other times it makes him stammer and sputter and flush from hairline to navel. "Talk." He pauses the documentary and shifts toward Wash. "Tell me what's on your mind."

Wash forces a smile and buries his face into Locus's neck. "I've just missed you." For good measure, his fingers drift along the hem of Locus's shirt, pulling the fabric up coyly.

Locus hums and catches Wash's wrists in one hand. "David," He chastises. "You know better than that. Look me in the eye, and tell me what you want."

Cheeks burning, Wash forces his gaze up to meet Locus's intense green eyes. He swallows hard. "I-I want you--oh!"

Before Wash can get a full thought out, Locus releases his wrists and reaches down to rub his groin. For three seconds, all Wash knows is too much pressure, too much friction, and his brain shorts out. He gasps and ruts forward, a moan ripping out of his throat.

And as quickly as that delightful, tormenting pleasure descends around him, it's gone. Locus kisses the corner of his mouth and shushes him. "Shhhhh, use your words, David."

"Can you plea--"

Locus rubs him again. Wash bites his lips, but a whimper slips out of his throat.

"Your words, David," Locus says, pulling Wash into his lap and sliding one hand down the back of his pants. "Tell me what you want."

Wash squeezes his eyes shut, fighting the urge to grind down into Locus. He can do this. He can have what he wants. He just needs to ask for it.

"Wanyoutafuckm--" Locus brushes a single fingertip against his hole, and Wash bucks and squeaks.

"Say it again."

"Fuckmefuckmefuckme."

Locus growls and kisses Wash's neck up to his ear. He nips the lobe, rolls it between his teeth. Wash's eyelids flutter and droop, a moan slipping out as he cants his hips backward. God, it should take more than a few sensual touches to get him going. Maybe if he's quick, rolls his hips just so, maybe he can feel Locus against his hole. It's risky, but just the thought of ragged friction against his rim makes him whimper.

But then firm hands drag him up onto his knees. No warmth, no friction, no nothing to grind against and rock back into. Frustrated tears sting Wash's eyes. He presses his face into Locus's neck and whines. Without missing a beat, Locus drags down the back of his pants and spanks Wash hard, once on each cheek.  "Quiet," he grits out, squeezing Wash's hips still as he tries to hump the air. "Use your words or be quiet. Understood?"

Hips twitching forward, Wash nods frantically. "I'm sorry. Don't stop. Please don't stop. I can be good. Please. I can be good."

Locus drags him back by his hair, looks up at Wash's ruddy, sex slackened face and wide blown eyes, and grins that quiet grin that never reaches his mouth. "Tell me," Locus commands, trailing his fingers over Wash's ass.

"Fuck me. Please, fuck me."

Locus nods. He releases Wash's hair and slides both hands down to grip his ass. He squeezes both pale cheeks and pulls them apart. "Where?"

"God," Wash gasps. "Fuck my ass."

And Locus rubs against his rim, slow purposeful circles. And Wash sighs and forces his hips not to buck back into the gentle pressure. "Please, please, please," he whispers under his breath, a mantra, a prayer.

Locus's chest rumbles with his chuckle. He leans forward, drags his teeth along Wash's neck, and whispers, "No."

Wash bites his lips bloody to stop his whimper, but he can't swallow down the want. The need. His hips pitch forward against his will, and Wash comes in his pants. His cheeks burn and his ears ring from too much close bright friction, the tacky feeling of semen cooling in his briefs. Fuck, he hasn't come in his pants since he was a teenager. His cheeks grow hotter.

Locus kisses the corner of his mouth and holds his hips still as Wash comes down from his orgasm. Once Wash's breathing slows and evens, Locus eases him down against his chest and cradles him like he's not a 5'10, 190 pound ex-army ranger, threads his fingers through Wash's hair, and murmurs, "You'll do better next time. Rest, little slut."

Wash swallows the slick, twisting feelings those words spark in his mind and buries his face in Locus's neck. He'll deal with these emotions later. Much later. After a nap, and a shower, and the heat death of the universe.

#

_...May..._

Tucker groans behind the register. Days like this, he wishes he had a stool or something. He's not just tired; he's worn thin. He's worked overtime the last week and a half, just to scrape together rent. His lease is up at the end of the month, and his landlord has to make repairs to a lot of other units in his building, so to cover costs, monthly rent is going up. For everyone. And the shitty thing is, Tucker gets it. Sure, his landlord's a dick, but he's gotta recoup the cost for repairs somehow.

The problem, however, is not Tucker's dick of a landlord, but rather his dick of a fuck buddy turned roommate. Felix. Just thinking his name makes Tucker groan. Really, Felix has been staying with Tucker for months now, has pretty much moved in and claimed most of the bathroom counter for his remarkably labor-intensive beauty regimen--who knew a guy without dreads could be so fuckin' high maintenance--but has paid exactly twenty bucks toward rent, twenty bucks for which Felix scribbled "Tucker owes Felix twenty blowies" on a napkin and stuck it to the fridge. Which haha, Tuckers such a slut he'd give a guy a suck job for a dollar, he gets the joke. But....

_"Seriously, Tuck, I don't put my name down on shit."_

_Tucker gaped. "Who the fuck doesn't put their name down on shit?"_

_"I don't." Felix crosses his arms and leans back against the kitchen counter. "I don't. Put my name. On shit."_

_"Why?"_

_A dark look crosses Felix's face. His posture goes loose and lazy, but his eyes peer through Tucker. It'd be hot as fuuuuuuuck if Tucker were in the mood to fool around. But instead he's standing around his kitchen like an idiot, his soon to be renewed leasing agreement in hand. "Because, Tucker, I just don't. No one's gonna tie me down."_

_"Yeah, but, how have you gotten an apartment then? Or a bank account? Or a job?"_

_Felix shrugs. "Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies."_

And fuck, did that piss him off. Where the fuck did Felix get off? Tucker rolls his eyes, hoping it can shake loose the annoyance and the pain of rejection, no matter how slight. _Just get over it,_ Tucker tells himself. _This is your life. Just grow a pair and deal with it._

The bell over the café door dings. Tucker looks up, but really why does he even bother, because if he's having a bad day in even the slightest, who should show up at Blood Gulch Coffee Co. but stupid, sanctimonious, stick-up-his-pert-as-fuck-ass Wash. Tucker keeps another groan welled up in his throat, but only just.

Wash stumbles forward, hands shoves in the pockets of his hoodie, his stupid hair flying out in every which direction just begging someone to smooth it down or knot a hand in it and kiss those dumb thin lips hard enough to bruise.

"Medium black coffee, please," Wash says, offering his card without prompting. His sleeves are bunched around his elbows, sweatbands around his wrists, baring the finest pair of forearms Tucker has ever seen. Veiny and defined and covered with a dusting of fine hair. Honestly, Wash's arms look like they're carved out of marble, and it just puts ideas in Tucker's head. Like what else of him is so chiseled and well formed. Like how much Tucker just wants to bite all that freckled skin and see it darken because of him.

"Okay, two bucks even." Tucker says as he swipes Wash's card and fills a cup with fresh brew.

When Tucker turns back around, he nearly jolts and slops hot coffee all over himself. Wash is staring. Gaping actually. Jaw hanging slack. Cheeks flushing faintly. Eyes bulging wide. Those big blue eyes, normally so dark and stormy Tucker thinks he'll drown if he looks too long. Fuck. Fuck him hard. Tucker cannot deal with Wash right now. Not when Felix has been especially dickish of late. Not when Wash is too fucking gorgeous to exist. Not when Tucker knows he doesn’t have a raindrops chance in hell of getting Wash to look twice at him.

But fuck, is Wash nice to look at.

Tucker hands over the cup, a miserable little grin wrinkling his mouth. Wash takes it quietly, breathing in the scent of roasted coffee before taking a quick taste. Tucker's gut knots up watching Wash's throat bob.

Wash heads off without a word. Tucker watches his ass as he walks away. Once Wash is gone, Tucker sighs. "Fuck. I just wanna punch him. With my dick. Is that a thing?"

"Jesus Christ, Tucker," Church shrieks from the kitchen, "don't you have a boyfriend or something?"

 _Oh....right...._ Tucker slumps forward, propping his head up with his left hand. Fuck it's gonna be a long day.

#

_...May..._

When Wash opens the door to Blood Gulch Coffee Co, he's assaulted by the scent of burning pastry and a needlessly exuberant, "Mr. Laundry! How are you today?"

Wash jolts, his eyes darting for the disruption and possible hostiles to cover. He counts to five before his gaze falls on the tall brunette in a royal blue apron, his face spread with a big dumb grin, waving at Wash like he was an old friend. Wash's brow furrows. _Well, that's...different._ Clearing his throat, he corrects the worker. "Umm, it's not Laundry. It's Wash."

The brunette just stares at him, his hazel eyes squinting slightly. He leans in like he was sharing a secret and whispered, "Mr. Laundry, why do you want to clean things?"

A line of pain flares behind his eyes. Wash can barely believe it, but he actually wishes Tucker was here. At least then he'd know what kind of insanity to expect. "I don't want to wash things," he clarifies, his hands twitching at his sides, "That's my name. Wash. Like Washington."

But the brunette hesitates for ten seconds, his expression still tense "Yeah, I'm still confused. You use a washingtub for cleaning."

 _Yeah, definitely wishing I only had to deal with Tucker. Seriously, is that why this place has such great coffee? They sold their sanity to a higher power._ Wash just shakes his head. "Medium coffee please."

"Oh," the brunette says, his eyes brightening with excitement, "you know what you'll like? A birthday cake latte! I invented it. For my best friend."

"For the last time, Caboose," the shrill-voiced employee calls from the back, "I'm not your best friend."

The brunette in royal blue--Caboose--just laughs. "Yeah, he says stuff like that all the time, but he doesn't mean it." Squaring his shoulders and beaming, he goes on. "He appreciates my gifts. Because I'm amazing."

Wash stares. "Ummm, I'm good with just the black coffee, please."

For a split second, Caboose's face pinches in hurt, but before Wash can feel bad, he grins and says, "Ok." He takes Wash's payment and darts behind the coffeemaker, arms moving so wildly Wash just knows he's about to break, well, probably everything. After a few minutes, about the same time that Wash realizes that it never takes Tucker this long to pour a drip coffee, Caboose reappears in behind the register, holding a to go cup with a lid securely in place. He holds it out to Wash, cheeks flushed from exertion. "Here you go, Mr. Laundry."

Wash takes the cup, looking between it and Caboose skeptically. "Is this what I ordered?"

Caboose scoffs. "Of course it is, Mr. Laundry. Not like I'm stupid Tucker."

Deciding to leave that potential minefield be, Wash forces a grin and leaves. Midway down the block he takes a sip of hyper-sweet buttery vanilla goodness and nearly chokes.

Yeah, that is definitely not his usual black coffee. But it's tasty enough. Wash heads toward the gym, finishing half the drink en route. There's no way a birthday cake latte fits into his fitness regimen, so looks like he's got some cardio to do.

#

_...May..._

"Hey Baby, did it hurt?" Tucker asks over the drone of the club music.

The girl in the barstool beside him knits her brow and looks between her friends and Tucker. "Did what hurt?"

"When you fell from heaven and onto my dick?" Tucker says, grinning. "Or maybe I'm just seeing the future. Bow chicka bow wow"

Tucker gets a drink to his face, a crantini from the smell. That's gonna be a bitch to clean out of his only nice shirt. Still, Tucker licks his lips and sighs wistfully. "Baby, if you wanted me to buy you a drink all you had to do was ask."

A sharp laugh cuts through the din as a firm hand claps on his shoulder. "That's my Tucker," Felix says as he slides into the stool beside Tucker. Tucker's stomach knots up. _What the fuck is Felix doing here? He said he had plans tonight._ "He's got his priorities in order."

And then Felix grabs Tucker's chin and pulls him in for a kiss, all teeth and tongue and pretty pain. Tucker shudders away, but the grip on his chin is almost bruising. Before he can say as much, Felix looks past him, nodding to the girls. "Ladies, is he giving you any trouble?"

The girl can shake her head, but Felix still tuts and digs out his wallet. "Lemme grab you a round. It's the least I can do."

Tucker gapes at Felix. Since when has Felix been so generous? Since when has he cared if Tucker gets into trouble on his own? But when Tucker opens his mouth to say as much, Felix shoots him a dark look, one rippling with the not so nice type of fire. "Meet you out back in five," Felix whispers against Tucker's ear before calling an order to Donut behind the bar. Once the drinks arrive, Felix levels that hard stare on him again. "Don't make me come find you."

Tucker gulps, nodding and excusing himself from the bar. Halfway across the bar, Tucker looks back over his shoulder and sees Felix turning his good-natured grin on the girls, his gaze warm and fluid and that definitely doesn't make Tucker's ears ring or his vision go red. But Tucker just fists his hands at his sides and slips out the back door for whatever the fuck Felix wants. Probably wants to get his dick wet or something.

And sure enough, four minutes later, Felix wanders out into the dirty alleyway, pushes Tucker face first into the masonry and bites his neck. Hard. Shit, Tucker really should've seen this coming.

"Not getting enough attention, huh Tuck?" Felix says as he yanks Tucker's belt free from his pants and ties Tucker's hands at the small of his back. "You could've just asked." Felix works him open with ruthless efficiency and too little slick. "But no, you want it the hard way."

"I'll show you the hard way," Tucker comments, bucking to try and throw Felix off him. "Bow chicka bow--" Felix grabs his dreads and knocks Tucker's temple into the wall. "OW!"

"Just shut up and enjoy, Tucker."

Tucker really wants to say "no," stomp on Felix's instep and fight until he's free. But instead, he bares his neck and tries not to moan when Felix finds his sweet spot. It's just easier to let Felix have his fun.

#

Wash isn't keeping his eyes open for Tucker. Really he's not, though he probably should be. Because he gets enough of Tucker's wonky back-and-forth, hot-and-cold behavior when he drops into Blood Gulch every few days jonesing for some caffeinated perfection. He really doesn't want to deal with Tucker more than he has to. Despite what his squad used to say, Wash _does_ possess some survival instincts, thank you very much.

But when Wash sees Tucker from across the gym, limping toward the treadmills, something inside Wash snaps. What the hell is wrong with him, working out on an injury? Does he know nothing about how the body works?

Before he can stop himself, Wash drops his weights back on the dumbbell rack and is standing between Tucker and the treadmill. Tucker jolts to a stop inches short of Wash. He frowns as his gaze sweeps up from the floor and he tugs out an ear bud. "Um, excuse me?"

"You're limping."

Tucker's brow wrinkles.

Wash goes on before he can stop himself. "You shouldn't exercise. You could aggravate your injury."

A moment later, Tucker throws his head back and laughs. Now it's Wash's turn to furrow his brow in confusion. Why the fuck is he laughing? "Dude," Tucker says, all cool and calm like he isn't the bane of Wash's existence, "I'm not hurt."

"You're limping," Wash repeats.

"Of course I'm limping. I got laid. Maybe you should give it a try," Tucker comments, leering at Wash just enough to make him flush. "You could stand to unwind a little."

Wash's back stiffens. He stands straighter, knowing his cheeks are flushing from more than just exertion now. _Stupid blood flow_. "Well excuse me for being concerned for your well-being." Spinning on heel, Wash marches back to the weight machines and doesn't look back over his shoulder. Not even once.

#

_...June..._

For the first time in ages, Tucker pulls kitchen duties for the week. Normally, he'd complain until Church of Caboose switched with him just so he'd shut up. After all, kitchen duties means baking, washing, cleaning, and staying quiet in the back, all of which Tucker hates. Normally, he likes working the counter, getting to interact with all the customers and be front and center, loud and obnoxious and bringing in those tips, because on blue shift, the options are Tucker, Church, Caboose, and occasionally Doc when he's not busy "actually saving lives"--Doc's words, not Tucker's.  Not to toot his own horn, but Tucker is far and away the most charismatic of the lot. But after all the tension with Felix and Wash accosting him at the gym last week, Tucker just wants some fuckin' peace and quiet.

And for the first three hours of shift, that's what kitchen duties get him. The peace of working through recipes and unloading and reloading the dishwasher and quietly snickering as Church gets more and more frustrated with the register. No one here to bother him but his own thoughts. And occasionally Caboose sneaking in to steal chocolate chips out of the pantry.

Which is why, of fucking course, Church ducks into the kitchen and says, "Tucker, go watch the counter for me."

"I'm in the middle of something," Tucker says, gesturing to the mixer currently creaming butter and sugar together for cookies.

"Just go up front."

"I'm working!"

"Jesus Christ, Tucker," Church says, practically shoving Tucker toward the kitchen door, "just go up front."

And of course, the bell over the door chimes, followed by Caboose hollering "Customer, customer," like he's a dog barking at the doorbell.

Tucker throws his head back and groans. "God, I hate you." But he doesn't even wait for Church to answer before wiping off his hands and heading for the kitchen door. "Welcome to Blood Gulch Coffee Co. What can I--" Tucker cuts himself off when he sees Wash standing at the counter, his cheeks flushed and his eyes soft. Softer than Tucker's seen on Wash. "...oh..."

"Uh, hi," Ways says, scrubbing the back of his neck anxiously. "Medium black coffee, please."

Tucker sighs. Yeah, the universe is just conspiring against him. He really should stop being surprised at this point. Without a word, Tucker rings up Wash's order, swipes his offered card, and turns to fill up a cup. But the pot is fucking empty. Tucker glares at the stupid contraption, then throws his hate at the wall between the café and the kitchen, where Church is probably cackling up a storm. Fuck, Tucker hates his coworkers. "It'll be a moment," Tucker tells Wash as he sets a fresh pot to brew. _Stupid fucking Church._

As the percolator heats up and the coffee grounds start to brew, Wash clears his throat. "Look, Tucker, about the other day."

Glancing at Wash over his shoulder, Tucker's brow quirks. "What about it?"

Wash gnaws his lower lip into oblivion, his eyes moving from the far corner of the café to settle on Tucker. Jesus, where does he get off having eyes that blue? Tucker could just punch the fucker for being so indecently pretty. But then Wash opens his mouth and out slips a tired, well-worn phrase. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed about your injury. I... I don't know what came over me."

And the weirdest part, Wash actually sounds sincere. Like he's honestly been beating himself up for the last few days instead of letting his roll off his back and moving on with his life. Tucker's saved from responding by the coffee machine beeping at him, signaling the first cup is ready. Filling up the to-go cup, Tucker bites the inside of his cheek and says, "You know, there's a Starbucks on Eighth. They probably won't mind that stick up your ass."

Wash glowers, but it's different than his usual stone-cold, hard-ass stare. This one is easier, kinder maybe, his lip faintly quirked upward

Fighting a smile, Tucker goes on. "Not that I couldn't help you remove it. I could. I'm definitely capable of helping. But I wouldn't."

"Tucker!" Church screeches from the kitchen. Tucker snickers.

"Wow," Wash says blandly, "worst customer service ever."

 _Fuck yeah!_ Tucker slides the cup of coffee across the counter, pulling on his usual smile, all sass. "Enjoy your future bowel movement."

Without missing a beat, Wash takes the cup and takes a deep long sip despite the coffee probably being 900 degrees or something. "See you tomorrow, Tucker."

Once Wash is out the door, Church ducks out from the kitchen, his brow creased.  "What the fuck was that?"

Before Tucker can defend himself, Caboose pipes up. "Mr. Laundry is having a toilet baby. Tucker's the father."

#

_...July..._

"Hey, Wash," Tucker calls when Wash enters the cafe. "Black coffee?"

Before Wash can so much as breathe, Caboose pops up at Tucker's shoulder and says, "Mr. Laundry gets the birthday cake latte."

Wash can't even laugh, though he feels it bubbling in his chest, light and warm and happy. Genuinely happy that these idiots have actually welcomed him into their weird little life in the café. Shit he hasn't felt like this since....well, Wash can't remember, but probably since Locus found his soul mark and revealed his own in turn. But Wash isn't sure. After all, he doesn't remember this lightness coursing through him.

Tucker startles at Caboose's appearance. He glares at his coworker and says, "No, he doesn't, Caboose. He gets a boring old black coffee every morning. He needs it to keep him regular."

Glaring half-heartedly, Wash watches as Caboose sputters in confusion. "Wha-- Why would Mr. Laundry want to be regular? He's amazing. Not as amazing as me, or Church, or Sheila, or Grif, or Simmons, or Sarge, or--"

Wash laughs, the sound bursting out of his chest true and loud. It feels good to laugh after so long holding himself at bay, but the slack-jawed, wide-eyed gape he gets from Tucker, _that_ is just priceless.

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questions, comments, and concrit welcome. Chat with me on Tumblr (@birdsbeesandlemonadetrees)


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 

_...October..._

 

"David, can you grab the groceries this week?" Locus asks as he works a simple knot into his necktie. "I've left a list in the kitchen. We don't need much."

From his nest of blankets on the bed, Wash smiles. Locus looks so good in a suit he can't wait until he gets home later and Wash can peel him out of every layer. "Yeah, definitely. The bus goes by that health food store you like."

Locus hums an affirmation and tugs Wash up by the collar to kiss him hard.

Hours later and still beaming like an idiot, Wash takes Locus's carefully crafted list down to the store, kicking fallen leaves along the sidewalk as he goes. Looks like Locus is planning shrimp stir fry for dinner, one of their favorites. Wash's mouth waters as he gathers the ingredients and adds a bar of the good dark chocolate Locus likes so much. Wash thinks it's absolutely disgusting, but the simple delicacy makes Locus happy.

Wash swipes his credit card at checkout and the screen blinks "declined" up at him. Fuck, he hadn't thought his allowance had run so low. Flushing in embarrassment, Wash gets out of line and digs out his cell phone.

Locus answers on the fourth ring, out of breath and frustrated. "Can I call you back? I'm in the middle of an important meeting."

"Sorry" Wash mutters, ducking farther into the corner as if that's possible. "I tried to get groceries, and my card declined. Can you move some money into my account?"

For a tense second, Wash hears only faint movement on the line. He holds his breath. Maybe Locus will just move the money, and that will be the end of it. He's in a meeting after all.

"The funds have been transferred. Next time, make sure to let me know when your account is running low. You need to be more responsible with your finances, David."

What finances? Wash doesn't have a job, a credit card, his own bank account. Hasn't since he moved in with Locus, and not for lack of trying. Wash just doesn't have the patience for most entry level jobs, and Locus has always insisted wash Wait until he finds something that genuinely interests him before pursuing a career. Because Wash already found a job he loved, and the army none too politely kicked him on his ass once his usefulness ran out.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Wash grits out. "Thank you."

Locus ends the call without a word. Wash returns to the checkout and tries his card again. The blinking black "approved" leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

#

_...November..._

_Woah_ , Tucker thinks when Wash steps through the cafe door, his hair shaggier than normal and his dark roots showing, his eyelids heavy, his shoulders slumped. _Fuck, he looks awful_. Like super awful. Beaten-through-the-floor-and-run-over-by-a-tank awful. Like he hasn't slept since summer. Tucker's brain gives a sympathetic twinge. He's pulled more than his fair share of all nighters before an opening shift. He knows exactly how much they suck. Knows that Wash probably hopes Tucker will feed him coffee and leave him in peace.

"Man, you look awful," Tucker says when Wash steps up to the register. No 'hi,' or 'welcome to Blood Gulch.' He just jumps in headfirst.

"Wow," Wash says, his tone so dry Tucker thinks he might dehydrate just from standing across the counter from him. Seriously, how the fuck can Wash dump that much salt into one syllable?

"I'm just saying you might wanna invest in some eye cream or sleeping pills or something. You look rough."

"Thanks, I hadn't noticed."

Tucker shoots him a sympathetic grin and reaches for the largest cup they stock. "Usual black?"

Wash nods, rubbing his eyes like that might magically keep him conscious. Really, Tucker thinks he needs a flat surface and a fluffy blanket more than a mug of coffee, but he serves coffee, not naps. So Tucker fills the cup with black brew and passes it across the counter to Wash. And the tiniest, most perfect hum of appreciation rumbles out of Wash as he lifts the cup to his lips and just breathes in the aroma.

Tucker doesn't have to dig his nails into his palms to keep from openly staring at the sheer beauty, but he almost does.

After a sip or two of coffee, Wash sighs, his shoulders loosening up and his eyes brightening just a touch. God, it's amazing what caffeine does for some people. But then Wash reaches for his wallet, and Tucker shakes his head. "Don't worry about it, dude."

Wash's brow wrinkles, the line between his eyebrows knitting deeper.

Tucker rolls his eyes before looking down at his hands. He's not doing anything wrong per say. There aren't any other customers around to cry favoritism, and some weird squirmy part in Tucker's chest wants to do something nice for Wash. Which is weird because Wash is some stuck up, prickly prude who takes everything way too seriously. "I'll cover it."

And Wash just glowers, his hand clenching so hard Tucker worries he might accidentally pop the lid off his cup and burn himself. "I don't need your pity."

"Dude, you were nearly falling over," Tucker says like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Not trying to pity you, I just figured you could use a break."

Even though his eyes swim a little, Wash's glare remains hard and insistent. He throws a few bills down on the counter like he's throwing down the gauntlet and daring Tucker to say something about it. Before he can try to shove the money back in Wash's face, Wash turns and storms out of the cafe. At least he takes the coffee with him. That's gotta count for something.

#

_...December..._

Today after grabbing his medium black coffee, Wash finds a table at the back of the café, the one farthest from the speaker blaring overplayed Christmas carols, and puts his back to the wall. Yeah, normally he'd just enjoy his coffee on the walk home and spend the rest of his day doing chores, watching TV, and trying not to let his memories of his service days overwhelm him. But Locus's apartment feels weird over the holidays, like the air is full of needles and if Wash deviates from his preset path by so much as an inch, he's gonna get stabbed. He couldn't say why. It's just a feeling.

So instead, Wash shucks his sweatshirt and sits with his back pressed to the cold drywall, his feet propped up on another chair, sipping at his cup while the workers shuffle behind the counter. Tucker and Caboose keep dancing around each other, constantly in each other's way and each on the verge of smacking the other, while Church sits on the opposite side of the café, hunched over a mess of papers and scribbling away. Probably something managerial in nature, though why Church is in a position of authority here, Wash can only speculate.

"Church," Tucker shouts across the café, too irked by something to keep his voice in check despite the few customers spread around the café, "can you please be the manager and tell Caboose to stop stealing chocolate chips?"

"Caboose, stop eating all the chocolate," Church says, not even looking up from his work. "Tucker, quit bothering me. I'm busy."

"Stupid Tucker," Caboose calls from the kitchen, his words mumbled over a mouthful of, well, if Wash had to guess, probably chocolate chips. "Church is busy."

Tucker throws a look toward Wash, one that screams _can you believe these idiots?_ "Do you have any clue what he's working on? Any at all?"

After a long pause, long enough most people would assume Caboose has gotten distracted by making chocolate chip cookies the size of pizzas--the thought of which makes Wash gag--Caboose replies, "Is it an award? A Best Friend Ever award?"

"Nope," Church calls back.

Wash hides his grin behind his coffee cup. Caboose tries again. "...Could it be a Best Friend Ever award?"

Church sighs.  "Definitely not."

Caboose scoffs. "Ugh, stupid Tucker!"

"Woah, what'd I do?" Tucker cuts in.

Church groans. "Oh my god, just shut up already."

A comment about them being the worst baristas ever flits on the tip of Wash's tongue, but before he can voice it, the front door flies open. Wash jolts at the sudden noise, eyes wide as he takes in the wiry guy with orange highlights marching up to the register, something aggressive in his gait. Wash his halfway to his feet when the guy reaches across the counter, grabs Tucker by the collar, and drags him forward into a heated kiss.

And Tucker's eyes close, a pleased little smirk playing on his lips.

Wash's brain short-circuits. _What the fuck? Who is this guy? And why is he kissing Tucker like he wants to swallow him whole? And what the fuck, Tucker's been flirting with him for months and he's already got someone?_ A flicker of outrage sparks in Wash's mind before his conscience reminds him of his own mate, and that's just a bucket of water to any indignation he feels.

Wash stands quickly, making the chair under his feet screech against the floor. The new guy doesn't so much as bat an eye in his direction, but Tucker blinks toward the disturbance. Beneath his dark skin, Wash sees a faint flush. Good.

Only when Wash is shivering as he storms down the block does he realize he left his hoodie and his half-empty cup of coffee behind, and that's just the cherry on top of the fuck fest sundae that is his life.

#

_...February..._

"In, in, in!"

Tucker looks up from dicking around on his phone behind the register, sees Wash crammed into the doorway as Kai blusters past him. Wash's eyes bulge a little as he watches Kai go. Not that Tucker can blame him. Kaikaina Grif is an anomaly of physics. How she's so agile with a full figure and cans the size of watermelons, Tucker can only guess.

Kai marches up to the counter and slams down her 64 ounce travel mug. "Fill me up, Tuck."

"Bow chicka bow wow," Tucker says automatically.

Church groans from the kitchen--when is he ever _not_ bitching up a storm? Kai just cackles. "Good one. But seriously. The biggest white mocha you can make, and then make it big enough for this. Midterms, uhhhh." Only then does Tucker notice the stack of textbooks under her arm, papers trying to escape at every possible angle. "Oh, and one of whatever Hottie with a Body gets," she adds, looking over her shoulder and giving Wash a very deliberate once over.

And Tucker doesn't smack her on the back of the head for eyeing Wash like he's her last meal. He doesn't. Instead, he looks to Wash's flushed cheeks and gaping mouth and asks, "Your usual, Wash?"

It takes Wash about ten seconds to drag his jaw off the ground and nod. Tucker doesn't roll his eyes as he heads back to the coffee machines and starts working on the world's biggest white chocolate mocha ever, his ears still trained on the front.

"So, Wash? That's an interesting name. You get lots of offers to get soaped up real good?"

"Um," Wash pauses long enough Tucker worries he might've just stroked out before continuing, "no?"

"Wow, you have met some boring ass people. Wanna go turn the employee restroom into a bath house?"

"I'm pretty sure that'll get you arrested for public indecency and destruction of private property."

Tucker laughs a little, the sound less bitter than he expected. But then again, Wash didn't respond to his over the top flirting, and Kai is, like, a hopped up bulldozer compared to him.

Kai blows a raspberry. "It's only indecent if witnesses don't enjoy the show, and Tucker's never complained about showing off my ping-pong ball trick."

"Wait, what?"

"Okay," Tucker says, sliding Kai's mammoth serving of diabetes and insomnia across the counter, "one unreasonably large white chocolate mocha."

Beaming, Kai makes grabby hands for her mug and snatches it from Tucker the moment it's in reach. She takes a long drink and sighs, "Ahhh, sweet nectar."

Wash just stares. Not that Tucker can blame him. Kai is....Kai.

After another gulp, probably leaving only half the mug left knowing how much Kai can fit in her mouth-- _bow chicka bow wow--_ she goes on, "And now back to cramming, and not the fun kind. Put it on my tab, Tucker." She turns back to Wash and smirks. "Sorry I gotta dine and dash you, but the MCAT won't study for itself." As she weaves past him, she reaches around and swats his ass.

"He-EEY!" Wash squeaks, his face turning cherry red. "That's spoken for!"

"Still sorry I'm missing out," Kai calls as she sprints out of the café, off to the local library or some shit to behave like a responsible young adult. Weird. Tucker never thought he'd describe Kai as responsible, but look at her cutting a broad swath and all that shit.

Rolling his eyes, Tucker fills a medium cup on auto-pilot, trying very hard to ignore the way Wash's words are ringing through his head. _"That's spoken for!"_ What the fuck does that mean? Wash has someone? Why didn't he just tell Tucker that ages and ages ago to get him to back off on the flirting? Nah, that's gotta be just a stress response or something. No way Wash is seeing someone. But Tucker just slides the drip coffee across to Wash as he pulls up Kai's tab on the register. Girl drinks so much coffee he worries about her heart.

Tucker looks up a few minutes later and finds Wash frozen in place, still gawking but now he's looking at Tucker. Or rather, he's looking down at Tucker's left wrist, the patch of skin where his long sleeves have ridden up, and fuck, there's the name "Isaac" peeking up at him. In his haste this morning, he'd forgotten his bracelets. _Fuck!_

Before Tucker can jerk his hand behind the counter and push his sleeve down over the mark, Wash grabs Tucker's arm, his hands swift and sure. But Wash turns his wrist over, soul mark out of sight, and he's still focused on Tucker's wrist. His thumb traces lightly over the row of rough red lines around Tucker's wrist, and Tucker hisses through his teeth. The rope burns were healing until Felix got rough again last night, and Tucker didn't have time to wrap them. _Double fuck._

Wash looks up at him, his eyes stormy. Tucker braces for the slew of paranoia Wash is probably ramping up to, already anticipating a headache this afternoon. And just like he expects, Wash opens his mouth but snaps it shut without so much as a peep. He looks down at the ligature marks, his lips twitching like he really, _really_ wants to say something. Tucker holds his breath.

"Umm, sorry," Wash says, gingerly releasing Tucker's wrist and looking down at his shoes. "Overstepping."

Tucker's throat tightens up, almost begging for Wash to ask the question: _So you like being tied up? So your partner has a thing about rough sex? Did he or she ask first before strapping you down?_

But Wash doesn't ask. Flushing beet red, Wash sets a five on the counter and beats a speedy retreat.

#

_...May..._

It's not Wash's fault. It's totally not. If Tucker hadn't been racing through the gym like a mad man, Wash might've had time to stop himself, or at the very least hurl himself out of Tucker's path. But yesterday was leg day and Wash had pushed himself maybe harder than he needed to after the debacle that was him full on grabbing Tucker and nearly interrogating him about those ligature marks. Him barely holding himself back from shaking Tucker and demanding answers to questions he had no right to ask. So yeah, today Wash's muscles are just piles of unresponsive jelly.

"Oooooof" Wash says as Tucker barrels into him.

The impact hit knocks his breath out of his lungs and his legs out from under him. Wash braces for the fall only for strong hands to catch him. Wash gapes from the floor, closer than he's used to seeing it, to the hands around his waist, strong dark fingers, up to Tucker. Jesus, Tucker's a couple inches shorter than Wash and he's not built for strength but for speed. How the hell is he this strong?

Before Wash can voice the thought and make himself look like a total idiot in the process, Tucker sets him upright and bolts toward the locker rooms. "Catch you later," Tucker calls over his shoulder, followed by a panicked "Bow chicka bow wow."

 Wash just stares at the retreating aqua blur. It takes him ten seconds to restart his brain and remind himself where he is--the gym--what he's doing--cardio cool down--and why he's here--because the apartment is so big and empty when Locus isn't home and Wash can't stand it. Wash shakes himself and heads over to the treadmills. Yeah, He needs to walk this off...whatever "this" is.

Fifteen minutes into his walk, someone saunters up in front of Wash's treadmill, a guy with tattoos creeping up his neck and orange streaks in his hair. The guy who made out with Tucker at the café. Wash slows to a walk and pulls out his earbud. "Can I help you?" he asks, ever polite even if he wants to punt this jackass into next week.

"Yeah, I'm looking for my boyfriend," the guy says, all attitude and swagger that grates at Wash the wrong way. He fishes out his phone and opens a picture. "You haven't seen him have you? We were supposed to work out together this morning."

Somehow, Wash seriously doubts that. Dressed in skinny jeans and motorcycle boots, this guy looks like about the only exercise he gets is weaseling into and out of bar fights. But there on screen, wrapped around this guy's side and sucking on his neck, yeah that's undisputedly Tucker. So why was Tucker running? Fleeing even?

 _Dark purple bruises marring Tucker's soft skin. Raw red abrasions._ Wash's ire swells behind his eyes. _This fucker did that. This fucker laid a hand on Tucker._

Keeping his expression carefully neutral, Wash studies the picture and says, "Think I've seen him here a few mornings. Wears a lot of blue?"

"Yes," the guy says eagerly. "Thank God, I thought I had the wrong gym. He around today?"

Sure, he sounds pleasant enough, but this guy is honed in on Tucker like a dog on a bone. Something about his eyes doesn't sit right with Wash. Maybe he's seeing things, maybe he's not. Maybe Wash is doing that thing again, that caring too much thing, that thing that has driven off more people than Wash can name, but Wash figures better safe than setting a stalker on your overly friendly neighborhood barista.

"Don't think so, sorry. You might check the pool."

With a grin and a thanks, the guy heads off deeper into the gym. Once he's out of earshot, Wash exhales and restarts his treadmill. Hopefully that will buy Tucker enough time

#

Cheeks flushed from exertion and panic, Tucker presses his forehead against the shower cubicle. The tile is blessedly cool, and helps to calm his nerves.

Felix didn't see him. Tucker knows this in his gut, because if Felix had seen him first, Tucker wouldn't have had a chance to run, to scrape a few spare minutes to collect himself. No, if Felix had seen Tucker, he wouldn't have wasted a second before he pounced.

Damn, Tucker knew he shouldn't have said no to a wake up quickie, shouldn't have slipped out while Felix was in the bathroom. He didn't even have the excuse of a work shift to fall back on. Tucker sighs and thumps his head against the wall. _What were you thinking?_

And then he'd gone and run headlong into Wash, Wash who didn't know how to make a joke, who wore such stupidly tight shirts and was perpetually in need of a root touch up, who felt so good in Tucker's arms. _Stupid stupid_ , Tucker tells himself. _Stop thinking about Wash._ That was just asking for trouble. Especially with Felix near.

Shaking his head, Tucker turns off the shower spray and reaches around the curtain for his towel. But his fingers find only condensation slick tile and air. _What the fuck? You don't take another man's towel in the locker room. That's just common decency._

Tucker peaks around the curtain, ready to yell at the bastard who swiped his towel. Instead, he finds a familiar slender frame leaned against the row of lockers, a towel dangling from his index finger. Felix.

Tucker's ears burn. He's momentarily thankful he has the shower curtain to hide behind, not that it does him much good. A lecherous grin spreads across Felix's face, but his eyes still have that dangerous glint Tucker's come to dread.

"Looking for something, Tuck?" Felix asks coyly, but coy looks so wrong on him. Like a snake wearing a mouse's skin and squeaking in jest.

But that's okay, Tucker can play too. "Huh, how'd it get all the way over there?"

Smirking, Felix crosses the locker room, stopping maybe a foot beyond Tucker's reach. On principle, Tucker didn't grab for it; he didn't want to give Felix the satisfaction. "Tucker, Tucker. Whatever would you do without me?"

Tucker puffs up his chest on principle. "Give all the guys reason to be ashamed, that's what." Yeah, he can still be cocky when he needs to be.

Felix cocks his head and takes a half-step back. "Well, why don't you?"

Brow furrowed, Tucker says, "Say what now?"

Felix shrugs, backing up until he reaches a bench and sits down casually, dropping the towel behind him. "Well, Tucker, as you say, since you've got it, flaunt it. Not like you're shy, right?"

Tucker's jaw clenches. Sure, he's not shy, per say, but he does have at least shreds of common decency. And strutting his stuff in the very public gym locker room is all kinds of a bad idea. "C'mon, just give me the towel, Felix."

"No dice."

"Felix."

"You want it," Felix says, pointedly spreading his knees wide, "come and get it."

And, fuck, Tucker has never been one to back down from a challenge. And Felix knows it. Holding his head high, Tucker throws back the shower curtain and struts over to Felix. He reaches for his towel, but before he can snag it, Felix grabs him, landing on bruises that keep not quite healing. Tucker bites his lips to stifle a groan.

"Felix," He warns.

"Shhhhh, no one else is here. Just you and me." Felix presses a bite into the v of Tucker's hip bones hard enough Tucker hisses. "And as I recall, you ran out of me this morning. So really, you owe me."

 _Right,_ I _owe_ you. _Not like I'm the one freeloading here._ Throat straining against the slew of angry word, Tucker exhales and weakly protests. "Lay off, Felix. I'm not in the mood."

Felix hums as he slides his hands back and cups Tucker's ass cheeks, pulling them apart and tracing his finger along Tucker's hole. And of course, that wave of sensation makes his dick jump to life. Dumb fuckin' penis.

One brow cooked, Felix drags his gaze from Tucker's groin to his face. "But, Tuck, you're already loose and wet." As if to prove his point, Felix presses his finger in all the way to the second knuckle.

Tucker flinches, his eyes glued on the locker room door. He sends a silent prayer to every god in the cosmos that Felix locked the door. But what are the odds he's that lucky? Of course, right when Tucker is about to argue, Felix curls his finger, and a rush of pleasure whites out Tucker's brain. His hips buck forward, and Felix catches his dick with his tongue and sucks in hard.

A moan breaks from Tucker's throat as Felix works him inside and out, building the pressure and pleasure higher and higher for Tucker can't tell how long. All he knows is tight, hot want coursing through his veins. Fuck, how does Felix do it?

Felix releases his cocks with a pop and pulls his hands back to Tucker's hips. Leering up at him, Felix says, "You like that?"

Tucker nods because his brain has turned to soup.

"That's right you do. Want more, slut?"

Tucker stiffens, a little bit of his sense coming back to him. "Felix," He chokes out, his voice ragged, "not here."

"Oh, don't go playing this game again, Tucker," Felix says as he palms Tucker's dick. "Don't go pretending you aren't just aching for a dick."

Biting his lips, Tucker's gaze flits between the door and his boyfriend, pleading even though he knows Felix won't change his mind. Head ducked, Tucker mumbles, "where do you want me?"

Felix leans back, propping himself up on his hands. "In my lap. You haven't ridden me in a while."

Tucker sighs and sets to work. He opens Felix's fly, draws out his already hard cock. Tucker's not the kind of perv that carries lube with him everywhere--and even if he was, where exactly would he be carrying said lube at the moment--so Tucker spits in his palm and works his hand over Felix. He doesn't spare a thought for if it's enough; instead, Tucker straddles Felix's hips, lines up, and sinks down. Too fast. Too dry. Tucker groans through the pain and starts rocking up and down as quick as he can manage. The sooner Felix finishes, the sooner Tucker gets to hit pause on the humiliation porno his life has become.

Felix scrapes his nails down Tucker's back and sucks a hickey into the crook of Tucker's neck, bucking up just to feel Tucker clench around him. He threads a hand through Tucker's dreads and tugs. "Look at me, slut," he says firmly.

Tucker's hips buck of their own accord, his eyes opening reflexively at the pain. Felix's eyes are trained on him, heated and hungry. Like a wolf stalking his prey. Tucker hates how the comparison makes his dick twitch.

"That's right, bitch. Who owns your ass?"

"You," Tucker whispers.

"Louder," Felix demands as he thrusts hard.

 _Please just let this be over quick_. Tucker clenches tight and fucks down harder. "You do. You own this ass."

Felix bites down in his neck hard enough to draw blood. His hips twitch forward, then Tucker feels warmth flood into him. Tucker winches at the sharp pitch of his cries. At least it sounds like he's enjoying himself. "Good slut," Felix whispers in his ear before wrapping a hand around Tucker's cock and pumping hard. "Get ready to come."

Wincing at the too rough grasp, Tucker thrusts forward. He wants to come. Needs to if only to make this burning farce of pleasure stop. But his ass is just the wrong side of sore, and the distant clatter of the gym edges in on his awareness. He's open minded, but Tucker's never gotten much out of exhibitionism. Still he chases release, fucking into Felix's fist while holding himself in check. _Don't come before he says. Don't come before he says._

Felix hums and nibbles on his ear lobe. "Alright, my little slut. When you're ready."

Tucker's hips pump hard and fast, jaw clenching as he strains for it. _Shit shit shit, it's not gonna happen_. His dick is hard and flushed an almost dangerous shade of purple-red, but like he told Felix to begin with, he's just not feeling it. The seconds crawl around him, and Tucker squeezes his eyes closed, chasing relief.

Felix's fist tightens. "Better hurry up, slut. You're testing my patience."

 _Shit shit shit_. Tucker's cramping and probably chafed, and not even close.

Door hinges squeak. The locker room door opening. Tucker's head snaps up, eyes flying open.

Wash.

Of course, it's fuckin' Wash. Wash just gapes, no doubt putting together exactly what's happening in a very public place. His eyes blown wide, his cheeks flushing, his shirt clinging to his chest. But instead of flinching away in disgust like most sensible people would, Wash locks eyes with him and stares, mouth dropped open, eyes darkening.

Tucker's hips sputter forward. He cums so hard, he sees stars.

#

_...May..._

Wash's phone vibrates in his pocket, but he lets it rumble on unanswered. It's Locus. Can't be anyone else. Locus always calls around this time, usually to tell Wash he's held up at the office and will be home late. Wash knows he should answer--Locus never can think straight when he can't get ahold of Wash--but his brain is still stubbornly refusing to form words.

All because of Tucker's stupid, perfect o-face. Pinched tight in frustration before relief melts over him, blowing his eyes wide and putting a lazy satisfied grin on his cheeks. In the gym locker room of all places. Yeah, Wash is never gonna be able to walk through there without blushing because, yeah, Wash has seen Tucker's o-face, knows how he looks when he's blissed out, and God, it is so many types of wrong. Most annoyingly, the type of wrong that makes his mouth go dry and his pants feel suddenly too tight.

It's been nine days since Wash walked in on Tucker getting pounded in the gym locker room, and in that time, Wash hasn't touched his dick once. Sure, he's had a few less than appropriate dreams and woken up humping the mattress, all the while with Locus slumbering peacefully beside him. Christ, the first morning it happened, Wash couldn't even look his boyfriend in the eye from all the guilt squirming in his stomach. Last night was a particularly vivid dream: Wash on his knees rimming Tucker while Tucker said so much filth, it would make a porn star green with envy. Wash had bolted out of bed so fast he didn't even tell Locus he was leaving.

And it's not his fault. He can't help stupid brain wanting things he can't have, wanting someone he has no right to want. All he can do is keep his actions in check, which is why Wash has been walking since before dawn, fists shoved his jacket pockets, his half hard dick straining to rise. Wash digs his nails into his palms and shakes his head. Why is his brain doing this to him? He's already met his soulmate in Locus. That should be enough; it's more than a lot of people get. Why can't he just be happy with what he has?

Wash wanders long after the sun has tipped toward the horizon. He drifts through shops and stores, not looking for anything except an excuse to keep moving. Distantly, his feet ache. His stomach rolls, some toxic slush of hunger and guilt. His eyelids are starting to droop, and he's been listing to the left for the last twenty minutes. He should be back at the apartment, working on dinner even if Locus is gonna be late. He should be home waiting, not roving like some rogue. But then again, when he thinks of home, he doesn't think of Locus's stark white minimalism. He thinks of tripping over his partner in a cramped little studio, and sharing stupid jokes when his insomnia flares up, and the smell of fresh brewed coffee.

Just the thought of coffee makes his mouth watering. Fuck, he could go for a cup.

Wash checks his watch: 5:53. Blood Gulch Coffee Co. is only a few blocks away, and last he checked, Tucker worked the morning shift. His stomach grumbles, urging his feet down the next avenue and toward the cafe.

What are the odds of Tucker being at work during his time off, anyway?

#

It's official: Tucker hates red shift. Hates Sarge breathing down his neck. Hates Lopez cussing him out in Spanish. Hates Simmons correcting him every six seconds. If Grif were working, red shift's resident sloth would be sneaking off to the back, stuffing his face with day old pastries and snoozing under the kitchen counters. But Grif called Tucker around noon and asked if Tucker could pick up his shift. Said he had a family emergency, and with Kai as a little sister, emergency takes on a whole new meaning. On his first day off in over a week.

Honestly, if Felix weren't in between jobs and thus holding down the couch, Tucker would've told Grif to go fuck himself. But Tucker has always had a soft spot for Kai--and to his eternal despair, he doesn't have her name on his wrist, but that doesn't stop them from having fun when they're both single and horny.

So Tucker's stuck filling in, mixing coffee and shouting sandwich orders at Lopez who refuses to speak a word of English even though he clearly understands what everyone says to him. For the fifth time today, Tucker bangs his head against the wall. And he's not even halfway through shift. And he was supposed to be relaxing today, maybe playing ball with Church or catching up on sleep whenever Felix went out for beer or cigarettes or take out. God, life sucks.

And of course, life sucks infinitely more when the cafe bell dings and Simmons asks in his saccharine voice "Good afternoon, welcome to Blood Gulch Coffee Co. What can we make for you today?"

" _We" won't be making anything_ , Tucker thinks derisively _. I will be making something. You'll just be the asshole who complains about my efficiency._

"Large black coffee," says a familiar haggard voice, a voice that cuts right to Tucker's core and turns him into a spineless mess of want and shame. Wash.

Tucker ducks behind the espresso machine, hoping he can just get through this interaction without one of the reds calling attention to him.

"Okay, that will be--" Simmons cuts himself off mid-sentence then shouts "Tucker! Get up here! We've got an order."

Tucker groans, shouting back "You're not my supervisor, red," just to give Wash the chance to turn tail and run like Tucker really wishes he could.

"Suck it, blue. Get up here."

Rolling his eyes, Tucker straightens his hair and steps out from his hiding place. Simmons shoots him an exasperated glare, one Tucker pointedly ignores, but Wash is frozen at the register, hand hovering in mid-air as he reaches for his wallet, eyes wide and mouth gaping. He looks like a fish. A fish who knows what Tucker sounds like when he comes. A fish whose presence may or may not have tipped Tucker over the metaphorical edge. A fish who, let's face it, Tucker would fuck in a heartbeat if said fish weren't so tightly wound.

Tucker snatches the cup out of Simmons hand and heads back to the drip coffee machine. As he fills the cup, Tucker absolutely does not listen to the way Wash says, "Umm, h-how much? How much is the l-large?"

What the fuck? Why does Wash sound so squeaky and quivering, like he's the one who got walked in on? Honestly, he's being twice as weird as Tucker with half the reason. And for some incomprehensible reason, Tucker just wants to shake Wash out of it.

Before he can second guess himself, Tucker grabs a permanent marker and quickly writes on the side of the cup. _"Can we pretend the thing at the gym didn't happen? - T"_ Yeah, it's the coward’s excuse for confrontation, but Tucker has a sneaking suspicion that Wash can sidestep anything he doesn't wanna deal with.

Sure enough, once money and coffee change hands, Wash bolts. Tucker tries not to pout at the rejected olive branch. Really, what did he expect?

But when he's halfway across the block, Wash stops in the middle of the street, staring at the cup of coffee. At Tucker's note. Through the big front window, Tucker watches, a flicker of hope sizzling in his chest. Wash's shoulders tense for a second, and then he visibly sighs and turns back to the cafe. And a tiny glimmer of a smile warms his face.

Tucker beams in response. His heart beats so quickly in his chest that he couldn't hope to contain it. Which is the exact moment the car slams into Wash.

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questions, comments, and concrit welcome! Come chat with me on Tumblr (@birdsbeesandlemonadetrees)


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

 

_...May..._

_Dark... everything's dark..._

_His head hurts. Like an elephant punted him. Into a freight train. Or a highway._

_..."Wash!"..._

_Warmth against his neck. Insistent pressure. No one's touched his neck since South pulled him out from under the Humvee's burning chassis. Since she tried to strangle him._

_..."come on, Wash... Don't even joke about this"..._

_He made a joke? That doesn't sound like him. Maybe a lifetime ago, ages and ages before his squad fell apart around him, but not now. Not after Maine and Connie. Not after York and North. After Carolina._

_Someone squeezes his hand tight._ _Warm and rough and just right. It's a good hand. He wants to turn his hand around and thread their fingers together._

_But his arms won't respond._

_"You're gonna be okay, Wash."_

_Haven't been okay in a while. But his ears ring loud, and the dark turns inky slick, and Wash descends._

When his eyes peek open later, he's under a bland white fluorescent light. Something's beeping to his left, the pattern steady and grating. Wash winces. Everything aches, not like after a workout when he's pushed past his limits and seen what he can do, but like something tried to tear him apart and nearly succeeded. He knows this allover pain. He got hit by a car again. Wash groans.  _Why do cars just hate me?_

Wash shifts, awareness seeping into his limbs. His feet are bare. He's not wearing underwear. Or much of anything. Just some flimsy cotton something. Someone's holding his right hand.  No, not holding; cradling. Two hands wrap around his, like it's some frail breakable thing.  Like he matters.

Wash lolls his head sideways, movements made sluggish by painkillers. He sees Locus sitting beside his hospital bed, forehead pressed against the mattress, hands curled protectively around Wash's. And Wash's heart sinks for a moment, stupidly hoping he'll see dreads and a too-broad-to-be-lying grin, but his brain catches up to him fast enough disappointment doesn't spread bitterly across his face. 

"Sam?"

Locus' head snaps up, a few hairs falling loose from his ponytail, his dark eyes red rimmed. The soft worried look only lasts moments. Then it stretches into something brittle and hard. "You're awake." He nods stiffly. "Good. I'm glad."

"Dumb car," Wash says weakly. Because what else can he say? Nothing.

"It's alright, you'll just need to be more careful next time."

#

It's been dark for hours by the time Tucker drops into the driver's seat of his car. He should've been home hours ago. Wouldn't have even left his apartment today if it weren't for Grif needing someone to cover his stupid shift. _And if you hadn't been there, Wash wouldn't have got--_

Tucker cuts that line of thinking short, his hands shaking as he balls them against his knees. But no, he can't ignore the guilt prickling in his belly. Tucker's great at shirking off blame, but he's honest enough with himself to know when he fucked up. And today, today he fucked up.

Because if he hadn't even come into work today, Wash wouldn't have gotten hurt. His throat bobs, stomach churning but nothing comes up. Guilty anger; it'd be so much more manageable if his body would just have the decency to puke. Tucker hangs his head between his shoulders, his eyes drifting automatically to his right wrist.  Even though his sleeve covers the name written there in jagged handwriting, Tucker can see it plain as day. And now that he's looking at it, Tucker can't stop his stupid brain.

 _Wash is smiling. Wash is smiling at_ him _. What the hell is happening? Since when has Wash been able to dislodge the stick in his ass long enough to behave like a person? And fuck, it's a nice smile. Cocked up higher on the left side. Blue eyes calm and endless. And the motherfucker has dimples. Tucker's brain short circuits. Dimples and freckles? On top of a physique that just doesn't quit. Tucker can only gawk._

_And then brakes squeal._

_And a horn blares._

_And Wash, fuckin_ _' Wash, flies sideways, an SUV screeching to a halt where he'd been standing._

_Tucker doesn't shriek in horror. He doesn't. He's not a girl or a pansy. In fact, he's jumping the counter before he catches up with himself.  Halfway out the door, he calls over his shoulder, "Call an ambulance! Fuck!"_

_Before the driver even gets out of the car, Tucker is kneeling in front of Wash. He's still and limp against the asphalt, a sticky puddle growing under his head. Tucker exhales sharply._ Wash. Wash is... _Tucker can't even tell, but he takes a deep breath and remembers those first aid classes he took back when he lifeguarded that summer after high school. He knows this. He knows what to do. So Tucker checks Wash's pulse and makes sure he's breathing smooth and even, his airway not blocked._

_Check, check, and check. Apart from the blood turning his stupid fluffy hair pink, Wash checks out, but getting hit hard enough to pass out is not good. After dragging off his apron and pressing it to the back of Wash's head, Tucker squeezes his hand. "...Wash..."_

_Fingers twitch in his grip. Wash's eyes blink open, his pupils blown wide, scary wide. "Tucker?"_

_"Fuck, yeah, I'm here."_

_"Why're you hold'n my hand?"_

_"Because you got hit by a car."_

_"You check'n out my undercarriage?"_

_Tucker scoffs. "Come on, Wash. I'm classier than that." Plus it's really hard to think sexy thoughts when Wash's laying on a pillow of his own blood._

_Wash looks at him really seriously. For seven seconds, Tucker's whole world are those big blue eyes, so big Tucker can barely see any white around his irises. Then Wash rolls onto his side, vomits on the pavement, and passes out._

_"Wash? Oh, don't even joke about this."_

_Tucker holds tight, sirens blaring ever closer.  Still Wash hasn't stirred. "Goddammit Wash."_

_"Out of the way, EMTs coming through."_

_"You know him?" One of the EMTs asks Tucker._

_"He's a regular at Blood Gulch," Tucker says quickly.  "My friend."_

_"What's his name?"_

_"Wash."_

_He scowls. "Not his_ _pseudonym.  His legal name."_

_"Oh," Tucker flushes, scrubbing his neck anxiously. "I don't-- He paid for coffee! His wallet."_

_They push past Tucker. As one of the EMTs assesses Wash and takes notes on a data pad, the other digs into Wash's pocket and pulls out the thin billfold Tucker has seen so many times so many months. The EMT fishes out Wash's ID and reads, "Washington, David. DOB--"_

_Tucker can see the EMTs still talking, but his ears ring so loud he can't make out their words. All he hears is one name reverberating in his skull.  DAVIDDAVIDDAVIDDAVID._

Tucker's breath catches just remembering it.  Even hours later after finishing his shift, tracking down Our Lady Mercy's Hospital where they took Wash, and dithering around in his car 'til long after visiting hours have ended, his wrist tingles insistently.

 _This is stupid,_ Tucker tells himself for probably the thousandth time this evening. It's just a coincidence. David's a common name. #18 in the US; Tucker googled it when he was a kid. So, really, the odds of the David on his wrist being Wash are so slim. So stupidly slim. But just picturing it, pulling Wash close to him and seeing him smile that doofy lopsided smile, shit, the thought turns Tucker's insides goopy and soft. And yeah, there's a fifty-fifty shot that "David," whoever he is, is Tucker's nemesis, but who the fuck cares? That's just a bullshit old wives tale anyway.

The dashboard clock reads 12:18 AM. Jesus, Felix is not gonna be happy if he gets home and Tucker's not there warming the bed. But for the first time in ages, Tucker doesn't give two shits what Felix thinks. Instead, he rubs his right wrist, looks up at the windows lining the hospital, most dark but a few full of light, and love, and hope. Tucker sucks in a deep breath. He hasn't hoped in ages.

#

_...June..._

Wash is used to living with injuries. He grew up struggling to defend himself from bullies and predators who tried to mess with his 'notice me not' mentality. He's used to living with aches and pains from PT. With bruises and scrapes from sparring. Fuck, he was an army ranger with Project Freelancer, working behind enemy lines, doing shit that keeps him up at night. He's used to a hard life.

Locus is not.

When they get home from Wash's three night stay in the hospital--a concussion the size of Rhode Island makes even the most hardened of doctors twitchy, especially given Wash's medical history--Locus sets Wash up on the couch, only leaving his side for the briefest possible intervals. He even tried to follow Wash into the bathroom before Wash snapped that he had a concussion, not a broken leg or invasive surgery for God's sake.

Two weeks later, Locus is still hanging around, taking days off work, all to make sure Wash takes it easy like the doctor said, some stranger who barely knows him. Wash scoffs. He knows his limits, thank you very much. He knows how much rest he needs, and he's antsy from being cooped up too damn long. Wash needs to stretch his legs, breathe some fresh air, just get up and move.

By day fifteen, Wash decides fuck it. He's halfway through shoving his feet into his tennis shoes when a heavy hand curls around his bicep. "Going somewhere?" Locus asks quietly, every syllable vibrating with control.

"Yeah, I was thinking coffee," Wash says casually. "My brain can only handle so much withdrawal."

"You should have told me," Locus replies, tugging Wash away from the front door. "I can make you something."

Wash bites his cheek to suppress his groan but follows Locus into the kitchen anyway. Locus moves quickly around the kitchen to his fancy coffee machine. Zoning out while Locus works, Wash lets his brain take him on a walk that he legs wish they could travel. He winds down familiar streets until he's outside a familiar store front, a black and white sign in the window splattered with red and blue paint like someone used it for paint ball practice. Wash smiles until Locus sets a cup in front of him, jolting him back to reality.

Locus' coffee is strong enough to make Wash's eyes water, but the bitterness is cut with some artificially-flavored creamer, synthetic sweetness rolling through his stomach. Wash forces a smile and whispers a brief "thank you," but the rest of the afternoon, Locus glowers at his laptop and doesn't say a word.

Wash deflates into the sofa. Maybe tomorrow he can get out.

#

_...June..._

_Well, that was a stupid idea_ , Tucker thinks as Felix cold cocks him, dropping him like a ton of bricks. A really fuckin' terrible idea. Why did he think this would work? Why did he think Felix would just accept this and go on his merry way? Touching the side of his face, Tucker gasps. Nerves through his cheek scream like they're ablaze. Might be a broken cheek bone for all he knows. And all this because he said six stupid words. _"I think we should break up."_

"Tucker, Tucker," Felix sighs as he crosses the room and straddles Tucker's hips. He yanks Tucker up by his dreads, casts a critical eye over Tucker's face before tutting, "I hate to break it to you, but this, this you and me thing, this isn't over until I say it's over."

 _No, that's definitely not how relationships work._ Not that Tucker will say as much. Christ, this is bad. This is so bad. This is like Lifetime original movie bad. Why did Tucker think trying to break up with Felix was a good idea?

Felix smirks down at him. Fuck, why is Tucker's dumb face so readable? He has always been bad at bluffing, but this is so much worse.

"Now, how do we move forward from here, Tucker?" Felix crowds forward, grinding their hips together, and dear God, why the fuck does Felix have a boner? But all those thoughts clear from Tucker's mind when Felix flips out his knife with a flourish. "Are you gonna behave and remember your place, or do I need to remind you of who owns who here?"

Tucker gapes, his heart thumping fast. Shit, what was he thinking? Probably something dumb about blue eyes and a crooked smile and that little wrinkle between Wash's eyebrows. Tucker squeezes his eyes shut. _Shut up, brain. Do not bring Wash into this._

"Well?" Felix asks, trailing the knife along the collar of Tucker's shirt.

Gulping, Tucker tilts his head back, baring his throat just like Felix wants.

Felix leers at him, the look sliding over Tucker's skin like oil-slick tainting water. "Glad to hear it."

Without further ado, Felix flips Tucker onto his knees and reminds him of what he's good for. Tucker would feel a lot better about the whole scenario if Felix hadn't given him a reach-around.

#

_...July..._

Wash flips through the pile of mail in the letter box as he rides the elevator back up to the apartment, his brow furrowed. Amidst the catalogs, magazines, and advertisement circulars, there's a letter addressed not to Locus but to him, Our Lady Mercy's Hospital letterhead stamped in place of the return address. Wash counts the days back in his head, mouth pinching. It's been six weeks since his discharge, and this is the first piece of mail he's seen.

 _Stupid mail service._ Sure, Wash still has VA benefits, but that's not gonna cover the egregious late fee he's probably racked up. Wash tears open the envelope and unfolds the notice, reading it quickly. But it's not a bill showing some late fees enough to make his eyes water; it's a receipt for a bill paid on one of Locus' cards, and the amount billed makes Wash's gut squirm uneasily.

Locus paid his medical bills. Just paid the bill and didn't breathe a word of it to Wash. Unless Locus coincidentally had some secret procedure done the same day Wash was admitted to the hospital, but that would be a pretty big coincidence, and the universe isn’t that kind.

Throat tight, Wash balls up the receipt and throws it into the trash. He wants to say he's his own man, he can pay his own goddamn bills, but how long has it been since he had a job, much less was looking for one? How long has he been sitting on his ass, just relaxing as life passes him by, collecting what little compensation the army sends him for his years of service?

Wash leaves the mail on the kitchen counter, grabs his keys, and takes himself on a damn walk. At least that way he can pretend he's doing something with his life, even as his jaw clenches.

#

_...July..._

Thank God, Doc came in today. If Tucker had had to keep hobbling back and forth between the register and the coffee bar, he might have screamed and torn out a few dreads.

Last night had been rough. His ribs still ache from Felix's hits, still powerful despite being too drunk to stand. Then this morning, Felix had been so, _so_ remorseful. In the world's most confusing apology, he swallowed Tucker's cock. Had even milked his prostate with only spit as lube, so now shifting made Tucker wince. But his cheek had stopped hurting a few days ago, and the bruises were fading so that was a plus. At least he wouldn't need to keep applying concealer every time he wanted to leave the house.

But when Wash comes in the shop, Tucker's heart shudders up into his throat. He goes light headed for a moment and braces against the counter. God, he's probably got that stupid grin going on, the one Kai makes fun of him for.

"Hey, Wash, how's it hanging?"

Wash stills for a moment, his eyes tensing like Tucker's just posed some trick question. "Fine," He says, checking over his shoulder.

Tucker's brow furrows. Wash has always been a touch twitchy, but today he seems borderline paranoid. Come to think of it, the bags under his eyes look darker than usual, and his shoulders are tense. "Damn, dude, you look like you're on the run."

Thank God Wash laughs. It's heavy and worn compared to his usual soft chuckle, but it's still a laugh and it eases the dread in Tucker's stomach. "God, it must be bad if even you aren't hitting on me."

Tucker shrugs. "I mean, you've looked better, sure, but I'd still do you."

Wash's ears go red. Tucker suppresses his urge to spring across the counter and mount him. Getting a reaction--any reaction--out of Wash has always been a great use of his time, but post-accident when Wash has been so cautious and careful with himself, Tucker's had to up his game just to get a blush. Seeing him go red is a nice reminder that Wash is, in fact, human.

As Doc fills a cup of Wash's usual, Tucker chitchats with Wash, all the while ignoring how Doc side-eyes him. He can't see it, but Tucker knows. He's been around the part time EMT enough to know when Doc's giving Tucker that look. At least Doc is kind enough to keep his thoughts to himself until Wash is caffeinated and out the door. Tucker sighs a little watching him leave.

"Lavernius Tucker" Doc says in that tone that reminds Tucker way too much of Donut. _Seriously, just because the guy is Donut's soulmate, that doesn't mean Donut's gotta rub off on him._ Tucker catches up with his thought rather belatedly and shudders. Doc goes on, "If I have to give you an STI screening one more time, you will regret it" Doc shakes his head not-so-affectionately. "What exactly are you thinking?"

"What the fuck?" Tucker sputters, his hands flying up defensively.

Doc levels a hard stare at him, crossing his arms and cooking his hip. The move is Donut to a T. Not that Tucker wants to think about Donut rubbing off on his mate in _any_ way. "Tucker," Doc says, shaking his head, "it's hardly fair to flirt with your customer when you already have a committed partner. What would Felix think?"

 _Oh, he fuckin' didn't_. Tucker's heartbeat pounds in his skull, his hands fisting against his sides. Just because Doc has a fucking daisy of a soul mate, that doesn't mean every relationship is sunshine and rainbows. _Screw it_ , Tucker thinks. He hasn't done anything wrong. He's just in a fucked up situation and taking whatever little relief and happiness he can get.

Before Tucker can give Doc a proper cussing out, because there's no chance he's gonna try to patch this up peacefully, the door swings open and a big guy with a wicked scar across his face storms toward the register. Jesus, he's wearing a suit that probably costs more than Tucker's first car, a tie that costs more than Tucker's monthly booze budget. What the fuck is he doing in a place like Blood Gulch? And why the fuck is he glowering at Tucker like he just insulted this guy's mother?

"Welcome to Blood Gulch," Tucker offers warily, "what can I--"

The big guy reaches across the counter and yanks Tucker forward by the collar of his shirt, pulling him half across the partition and making the edges of the countertop cut into his chafed dick and bruised hips. He gets up into Tucker's space, each huffed breath hot against Tucker's cheeks. "Stay. Away. From Washington."

Tucker's brow wrinkles, fear and confusion warring in his belly. Because he's an idiot with no sense of self-preservation, Tucker asks, "What, you mean Wash?"

The big guy growls. He grabs Tucker around the throat with his other hand, squeezing just hard enough to make Tucker's eyes blow wide. "Don't talk about him. Don't think about him. Forget he even exists."

Tucker digs his nails into the guy's arm, but he doesn't so much as flinch. Who does this guy think he is? "Dude, my job is customer service--"

"Then find another customer to service," the big guy cuts in. "Washington. Is. Taken." He squeezes Tucker's throat just enough to make his vision white out. "Understand?"

Fighting the between the desire to roll his eyes and tell this fucker exactly where he can stick his ultimatum and the desire to, you know, not die, Tucker tenses. _Fuck, when did my life become such a fuckin' shit show?_ But the big guy crushes Tucker's throat tighter, and white spots flare behind his eyes. If Tucker waits much longer, he's not gonna be able to answer, much less thwart this guy's shitty possessive streak by bribing Church to get him a copy of the security tapes and showing Wash he's got one devil of a stalker. And for a millisecond, Tucker's in his bedroom, flat on his back and taking every insult and injury Felix dishes out. Just like all those times, Tucker wants to fight, but he knows when he's beaten.

Ducking his head, Tucker rasps, "Alright, I get it, dude. Just lemme breathe."

The big guy doesn't move for a long moment, his fingers not even flinching against Tucker's skin. Without warning, he drops Tucker to the counter and storms out just as quickly as he came. Tucker stays slumped over the counter, hands scrabbling for his throat as his stomach churns with shame and hate. And the worst part, most of that hatred just burns against his heart, whispering familiar names until Tucker's brain shuts down, and he finishes his shift on auto-pilot.

Thank God neither Doc nor Caboose say a single god-damned word. Tucker does not wanna hear it.

#

_...August..._

Half the time, Wash hates the gym. More than half the time. The early mornings spent sweating through his shirts. The rush of results-obsessed meatheads Wash used to be bullied by before military school. The incessant clank of weight machines and grunts, noises that should remind him of home but only leave him antsy and checking his six. Sure, the routine helps keep Wash centered, and he's been sore every day of his life, so waking up without something aching might be the surest sign he's dead. But in the few months since the accident, the gym has been a godsend. It's his refuge when he can't handle Locus hovering and prying and pouting. Wash'll just grab his gym bag and go.

After today's work out, Wash ducks into the locker room for use the head and his eyes linger on a familiar locker. He's only opened it twice in all the years he's been coming here--fuck, it has been years, hasn't it? Normally, Wash just pays the rental fee and lets the locker be.

But not today.

Once he's relieved himself, toweled off, and changed out of his sweaty clothes, Wash crosses to locker 24110 and thumbs the combination lock, opens it on the first try. The locker swings open, revealing a nondescript black duffle bag. Wash's chest loosens at the sight. He knows the bag's exact contents, how heavy it feels in his hands. The first few weeks after renting the locker, Wash thought he was being paranoid, stashing a go bag even though he'd just moved in with Locus. Christ, what did that say about his relationship if Wash thought he'd need an escape route from the get-go?

Wash's gut wriggles at the thought, but the quiet certainty of having something for himself, something beyond Locus' stark apartment and cloying kindness, the relief is more than he can say. Even if he never thought he'd need the bag, it still lightens Wash to know he has a way out.

#

_...September..._

When Tucker gets home and finds the front door unlocked, he groans. Honestly, did Felix grow up on another planet? Maybe one that doesn't have a concept of locks? Tucker hesitates at the threshold, swallowing down his anger and fear, preparing for whatever fresh hell waits for him on the other side of the door.

Tucker steps inside, his steps light despite his bone-deep exhaustion. He just wants to stomp into his bedroom, strip to his skin, and just sleep for days. But he can't do that, can't leave himself so vulnerable. He takes in his modest apartment, all second-hand furniture and the books, games, and computer parts Church has left behind over the years. God, how did he ever get so much stuff? And why has he kept it all these years? And didn't he leave his laptop on the coffee table before he left for work?

Brow furrowed, Tucker drops to his knees and checks under the table and amidst the couch cushions for his old college computer, but no dice. It's gone. It's gone. And so is Felix.

Without pause, Tucker checks all his hiding spots, the nooks and crannies he stashes rainy day money just like his mom used to. Two spots--the hollowed out coloring book Caboose gave him as a Christmas gift back when he'd started working at Blood Gulch, and the loose floor tile in the bathroom--two stops are still flush with cash, but every other hidey hole is cleaned out. Even the dust has been wiped away. Tucker scowls. _The fuck! He even took my phone charger._

Tucker drops onto the couch, his anger flaring hot in his brains, his hands curling around his cell phone. Logically, Tucker knows what he should do: call the cops about a theft, check his bank account because knowing his luck Felix memorized his debit card number and blew Tucker's hard-earned cash on something stupid. He gets "911" dialed before his brain screeches to a halt, his stomach curdling. _If the dust around my hiding places has been wiped away, Felix probably wiped his prints. And if the cops ask how Felix got into his apartment, your landlord's gonna find out Felix has been freeloading for months. Fuck._

So Tucker just sits, staring down at his phone, counting the ways his life has slipped beyond his control. He doesn't move for longer than he'd care to admit, his mind circling the same old question: _What the fuck do I do now?_

For a moment, Tucker considers texting Felix, demanding answers or his cash and computer. Not because the computer's worth jack shit; it's just the principle that matters. But as quickly as Tucker considers the idea, he shoves it aside. He's had Felix's knife pressed against his jugular one time too many. He's not giving Felix an excuse to pull it again. Briefly, Tucker thinks about letting it go. Just going on with his life, going about his days until Felix waltzes back through the door with a sultry, dark look and about fifty bad ideas.

Bile rises in Tucker's throat. No. No waiting around like a pussy. Tucker hasn't had a chance like this in ages. And he's not gonna waste a second. Besides, it's not like his credit can get any worse, and he's been signing three month leases for the past year. Next month, he and Felix would be having the same old argument.

An hour later, Tucker shows up outside Grif and Kai's apartment building, some clothes, toiletries, and everything he couldn't live without stuffed into a duffle bag, a backpack, and his old gray laundry basket. Really it's not much: a high school yearbook, a box of polaroids he's taken over the years along with his camera, the stuffed alligator Kai won him on their first date, the stupid hollowed-out coloring book from Caboose, and the gray hoodie Wash left at Blood Gulch months and months ago and never claimed from lost and found. Flushed from battling for a parking stop and hauling his shit up three blocks to the apartment, Tucker sheepishly buzzes apartment D7, labeled "You better have pizza" in Grif's blocky letters.

"Who the fuck is it?" shouts Grif over the speaker.

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" Tucker asks, as close to his normal swagger as he can manage.

"Tucker?"

Before Tucker can call back "no shit, Sherlock," Kai squeals. "Grif, don't be a d-bag. Let him in!"

"Bow chicka-" The buzzer interrupts Tucker's halfhearted catchphrase. He fumbles for the door, muttering insults under his breath.

Grif and Kai's building has an elevator--thank fuckin' God--and in under two minutes, Tucker is outside their door, clutching his few belongings and feeling like a fool. Fuck, what is he gonna say when they open the door and roll their eyes at his misfortunes? Well, Kai will be sympathetic, but Grif doesn't give two shits about anything that isn't smothered in cheese. Except maybe Simmons. Still not sure what's going on there.

All too quickly, the door to D7 flies open, Kai bounding out into the hallway, dodging around Tucker's laundry basket and pulling him into a back-breaking hug. "Tucker! What the hell! You never come see me anymore, and now you drop in outta the blue."

"Sorry, Kai. Life's been...." Tucker trails off, not sure what to say.

"What's with the basket?" Grif asks. He's slouched against the doorway, his eyes narrowed in on Tucker's overladen shoulders.

Ducking his head, Tucker bites his cheek until he can breathe evenly enough to speak. "Yeah, um, about that... Can I stay with y'all til I can sort out my shit?"

Kai makes a soft noise of concern. "What's wrong?"

Cheeks burning, Tucker sighs. "It's Felix. Things are.... not great."

Tucker startles with big hands lift the laundry basket from his hands. Tucker looks up and gapes. Grif just turns and carries Tucker's shit into the apartment, not quite meeting Tucker's gaze. "You're buying dinner," Grif calls over his shoulder.

"Ooooooh," Kai says as she takes Tucker's duffle, loops her arm through his, and leads him into the apartment. "I vote tacos!"

Tucker nearly cries from the weight of his relief.

#

_...October..._

Midway through hanging laundry in the walk-in closet, the front door open. Wash's brow furrows, elbow deep in Locus' underwear. It's barely eleven; Locus should be at the office. Why is he home so early? Before Wash takes a step toward the closet door, Locus stomps across the apartment, another pair of footsteps shuffling after him. The office door slams, but from inside the closet, Wash hears raised voiced.

"Someone's moving up in the world." A harsh voice. Faintly familiar, but Wash can't place it.

"I told you never to come back here."

"Sheesh, you're crabby."

Something slams against the wall, hard enough to jostle the hangers on the rack. Wash freezes, ready to run before he hears a low chuckle. "Oh, you're awful worked up."

"Felix-"

There's another scuffle. Another bump. A deep growl, probably Locus, and then the grating voice again. "--Look, you weren't faster than me when we were kids, you haven't got any faster in your old age. So chill the fuck out and listen for once."

Tension radiates up through Wash's spine. If this were anyone else, Wash would be out of the bedroom and in there, putting his nose right where it doesn't belong. But Locus has never needed Wash to rescue him. Has never even let Wash fight his own damn battles. Let Locus get himself out of this one.

"Fine," Locus grits out. "Talk."

The stranger--Felix, Wash assumes, given the way Locus spat the name--exhales almost wistfully. "My squeeze. The guy I've been seeing since you kicked me to the curb. He's missing. And a little bird told me he spotted someone tall, dark, and fuckin' scary snapping at him down at a café on eighth."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Someone with your same scar."

Locus goes quiet for a few seconds before he responds. "That was an unrelated instance. He was overstepping his boundaries with my mate."

Felix huffs. "And to think, you used to say such sweet things about me."

Wash's eyes bulge. The guy in Locus' study with a brittle voice, that's Locus' ex? Locus had a long term relationship and never mentioned it to Wash? And what the fuck is Locus talking about, someone "overstepping" with him? He doesn't know anyone, doesn't interact with anyone except the girl at the gym reception desk, the cashiers at their local grocery store, and Tu--

_Oh no._

"I did not harm him. I don't do that kind of work anymore."

"Huh," Felix retorts casually, "your loss."

For a long tense moment, silence radiates from the office, then there's a faint creak, a light moan, and a snicker. "You know," Felix says, his voice pitched low and sultry, "I'd take you back, Lo, if you spent enough time on your knees."

Locus grunts. There's another ruckus, and Locus barks, "Get out."

"Already gone."

Light footsteps retreat from the office. Wash is halfway to the bedroom door before he thinks better of it. He sneaks around the door frame just quick enough to see a lanky weasel of a man with orange streaks in his hair marching toward the front door. And before the living room door even slams, Locus is running after him, hair pulled lose from his ponytail, suit in disarray.

The door clicks shut behind the pair of them, and Wash's stomach turns to lead.

He gives them a ten minute head start, then Wash throws a change of clothes into a bag, pulls on his jacket, and takes the stairs down to the main floor. He throws his cellphone in the dumpster en route to the gym. He's run out of reasons to stay.

#

_...October..._

Tucker sighs wistfully midway through his shift, rolling a cramp out of his neck with a grin. Grif and Kai's pull out couch is a mess of springs all aiming to spear though him, and the past three nights of beer and pizza have left a dent in his bank account--try feeding a Hawaiian ex-linebacker who never learned the meaning of the phrase 'portion control' on a part time salary. But he's slept well the last week and a half, and it's finally Halloween, the greatest holiday of the year. Yeah, he's jerked awake in the middle of the night more than once, swearing he can hear Felix chuckling outside the apartment door, but that'll get better with time. Shitty as it sounds, Tucker counts it as a win. Lord knows, he's needed one.

Church slumps in the kitchen doorway, his brow knitted and his arms crossed over his chest. "Man, this place is a tomb." He scratches his head, hitting the cat ears Caboose keeps putting on his head and scoffing. "Caboose!"

Spinning frantically, Caboose gasps, his halo off-kilter. "Bodies! Bodies! Where are the bodies?"

"Not a literal tomb, Caboose," Church says, ripping the ears free from his hair.

"Yeah," Tucker adds. "It's not about to turn into Walking Dead in here or anything."

Caboose gives Tucker a look, all strained credulity like _Tucker's_ the dumb one here. "Of course not, Tucker. There's no cameras. Or shotguns. Or brains."

"Wow, he's right on all counts.  That's gotta be a first," Church comments.

Tucker laughs as the doorbell dings. Putting on his biggest smile and least offensive leer, Tucker spins behind the register, already talking, "Welcome to Blood Gulch. What I can get for you?"

The grating chuckle hits Tucker harder than a punch to the chest. Felix. Wrapped up in enough black jeans and leather to fill a Hot Topic despite the fact that it's a balmy eighty degrees outside. Fuckin' Texas. For a millisecond, Tucker's throat goes dry just like it did the first time he spotted Felix across the bar. Just as quickly, his gut twists in disgust. Christ, Tucker needs therapy if he still would bang Felix. Therapy or Jesus. Too bad he doesn't have patience for either.

Gulping, Tucker crosses his arms over his chest and hardens his gaze as Felix approaches the register. He takes a deep breath, but the air feels thin around him. Too thin to level out his head. "What are you doing here, Felix?" Tucker asks, all servile sweetness gone.

Felix tilts his head just so, sauntering up like a lion stalking a gazelle. Or a snake trailing a mouse. Felix grins his too sharp to be sincere grin and answers, "Looking for you. What else? I was worried when you weren't at home waiting for me."

Tucker's jaw clenches. "I had work."

"Yeah, shop's just hopping, isn't it?" Felix says, scanning the near empty tables and Church and Caboose dicking around near the kitchen door, pretending to be engrossed in their phones when they're really eavesdropping. "Think you could take a few minutes so we can chat? Maybe in private?"

And the worst part, it actually sounds like a reasonable request. Step outside. Get some air. Actually talk through their issues. And if Tucker weren't sick of looking in the mirror and seeing bruises darkening his skin and fear dragging down his grin, he might consider it. But he tried to talk thing through with Felix before and ended up with a knife at his throat and an aching ass. No. Thank. You.

"Whatever you wanna say to me, you can say it here."

Felix's eyes tighten. They flit to the few customers minding their own business, then back to Church and Caboose who, yeah, they're not even pretending to be distracted anymore. They're watching Felix like a pair of hawks. Caboose's fists are curled at his side, and Church is holding his phone down near his hip, screen tilted at a weird angle.

"You sure about that, Tuck?" Felix says, leaning forward against the counter, his voice pitched low but still loud enough for anyone to hear. "Because with that contract wrapped up, all I've been able to do is think about how long it's been since I saw my boyfriend and how good your lips feel around my dick."

Tucker's ears burn, but he stands his ground. So Felix wants to humiliate him? Yeah, let him try. "Wow, boyfriend, huh?" Tucker grits out. "Thought you didn't do commitment. At least, that's what you told me."

Felix stills for a moment before he throws his head back and laughs. "C'mon, Tucker. Don't be like that. You know how I am. I like to joke around, have some fun, make you feel good."

"Look, Felix," Tucker spits, his ears ringing and his stomach rolling with each word Felix slips out, "if you aren't getting coffee, you need to leave. Blood Gulch has a strict no loitering policy, and whatever business you think you have here, it's over."

"And like I told you, Tucker," Felix says, dragging Tucker forward by the collar until he's stuck breathing in Felix's stupid cologne. "This isn't over until I say it's over."

"Umm," Church cuts in, stepping up beside Tucker and pointing his phone's camera directly at Felix, "care to repeat that for the camera, buddy?"

Felix's grip on Tucker clenches, his eyes widening as they move from Tucker to the camera aimed at his face.

"I mean, doesn't really matter," Church goes on. "I got it the first time. I just thought you might want another take in case that last one wasn't rape-y enough for you."

Gaze narrowing, Felix shoves Tucker away and storms out of the café. Tucker stares after him for a solid minute, his hands shaking and his hearing slowly coming back to normal. It's over. It's really, truly, finally fuckin' over. Felix is gone, out of his hair and out of his life. For good. Tears blur Tucker's vision, but he blinks them away. By the time he's calmed down enough to actually talk, Church and Caboose are back to shooting the shit. Ducking his head, Tucker rubs the back of his neck and halfheartedly meets Church's eyes. "Thank you."

And instead of making a show of calling Tucker a pussy or a cry baby, Church sets his jaw. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Get back to work."

#

_...November..._

Wash jolts awake when the Blood Gulch back door bangs open, hinges squealing before the door slams against the wall. His heart hammers in his throat, waiting for the familiar tuneless whistle all the employees seem to do when they take out the trash. From his hiding spot up on the fire escape across the alley from his once favorite coffee shop, Wash hunkers down, trying to keep out of sight so he can one day show his face in the café again. But if the lazy barista from the afternoon shift, or one of the managers, or even Tucker sees him, Wash will never be able to live the humiliation down. Never.

"Look, I know I asked for extra hours, but this is bullshit." Tucker's voice echoes through the alley, bouncing off the brick walls. Wash freezes, fighting the urge to crane up from his hiding spot and catch sight of his friend. "I can't work all day, every day because Grif can't be bothered to get out of bed or Simmons has, I don't know, a math convention or something."

He gets a gravelly growl in response. Nothing overtly threatening, but displeased enough Wash peeks up instinctively, just in case Tucker needs back up. Instead, he finds Tucker's back to him, holding his aqua apron in his fist, and a graying man with a buzz-cut and a battle-weary grimace. He shoves his hands into the pocket of his red apron, his irritation barely contained. "Now, listen here, private," the grizzled evening manager barks with all the venom of a drill sergeant--and Wash would know because he still gets nightmares about basic. "I've been running shifts here in Blood Gulch since you were in diapers, and I will not let the red team's performance be hampered by a filthy, lazy blue. Or Grif, but that's a different conversation entirely,"

"But that's not even--" Tucker cuts himself off with a sigh, his shoulders slouching. "Oh, whatever. I can't even talk to you people. Just let me have my day off. Fuck!"

Exasperated, Tucker storms off down the alley, unlocking his junky old sedan and speeding off in a plume of exhaust. If he didn't sound so fed up with, well, everything, Wash would feel less bad about fixating on Tucker's ass as he marched off.

"Hehe, crazy blue devil. Can't even take a joke," the manager goes on. "Am I right?"

Wash's brow furrows. From this angle, he can't see in through Blood Gulch's back door, so more than likely the manager in red is talking to another worker, but that doesn't make much sense.

"Yeah, I'm talkin' to you, Blondie," the manager says, his gaze landing on Wash up on the fire escape.

Alarms sound in Wash's head, but he's frozen in place. His back aches from five nights sleeping sitting upright on the fire escape, and the shower he took yesterday at the gym has been mostly drowned out by garbage fumes and grime. Truth be told, he's gone soft since his discharge. Or maybe he's always been soft and just pretended he wasn't.

The manager drops a bag of trash in the dumpster and gently closes the rear door without letting it click all the way shut. Arms crossed, he saunters halfway down the alley closer to Wash's fire escape and leans against the opposite wall. Close enough he doesn't have to shout up at Wash to be heard; far enough Wash can still sprint past him if he needs to bolt.

"You used to come in a bunch," the manager says casually, crossing his arms, his gaze drifting to the mouth of the alley.

"...Yeah." Wash winces at how his voice sounds. Strangled and warped by sleepless nights and dehydration.

The manager nods slowly. "Your buddy's missed you," he says before clarifying. "The fellow who just scampered off. He wouldn't say so, but he does."

Wash clenches his jaw. Now he wishes he'd just done the smart thing and kept his head down.

"You should come in sometime," the manager blurts before Wash can even form a response. "Might help morale around here."

"Thought you didn't care about a filthy blue," Wash points out.

The manager grins. "Well, what the enemy doesn't know won't hurt 'em."

Wash frowns. Because yes, it most certainly _will_ hurt Tucker if Wash breezes back into his life only to disappear again, but mostly because _What is wrong with you, these are your employees you're calling 'the enemy.' Does no one else see the problem with this?_

Hanging his head, Wash grabs his duffle bag and slides down the fire escape ladder. He's been spotted here; looks like he'll have to find somewhere else to hang his hat. A shame, because Blood Gulch is the first place that has felt like home in a long time. But then again, Wash is great at losing things. The best.

"Hey," the manager calls, just insistent enough that Wash stops. He turns around slowly, only to find the man hasn't so much as budged from his spot against the café's back wall. "If you need somewhere to stay, I've got a couch. It's not a bed, but it's got a roof and walls. Better than nothin'."

Wash's eyes bulge. Startled, he takes a half step back, barely able to keep his jaw off the floor. "I don't need your pity," Wash snaps, but after five days on the street, it lacks his usual venom.

"Son, a wise man once told me only a fool turns down help when he needs it. And you don't strike me as a fool."

Cheeks coloring, Wash grips the strap on his duffle bag until his knuckles turn white. Warily, he met the manager's gaze and grit out, "I don't have any money. I can't pay you back."

Kicking off the wall, the manager crossed the alley and clapped a good-natured hand on Wash's shoulder. With a chuckle, he said, "Well, don't worry your pretty little head about it, Blondie. I know just how you can help."

Wash sighed. Somehow, he suspected this was not going to turn out well.

#

_...November..._

He's slipped into a parallel universe. Everything is basically the same. Tucker's still newly single with an ex who might take up stalking him on a whim, still couch surfing because the only places available in his price range are 45+ minutes from work or come with creepy-as-fuck roommates, still staring at his wrist in the dead of night and praying Wash is okay even though he hasn't showed his face in the café in nearly a week, but it's just off kilter enough, Tucker can't to find his footing.

Why else would Church have texted him less than an hour after his shift ended yesterday, telling him to take the next day off? Tucker glared at his phone for a solid minute, waiting for Church to yank the rug out from under him. When no such message came, Tucker pulled off the road and called Church to make sure his brain wasn't playing tricks on him. And Church had answered with an exasperated huff. _"Jesus Christ, Tucker, you're getting your goddamn day off. Quit bitching and just enjoy it."_

So now, Tucker's sprawled on Kai and Grif's couch, feet tangled in bedsheets, staring up at the sunlit ceiling, watching the line of light stretch farther into the room. Before too long, it'll peek over the arm of the sofa and blind him, but until then, Tucker can't even think about moving. It's his first day off since he and Felix split, the first time he's had two second to just be still and breathe.

Across the apartment, Grif's snoring away his morning. Kai was out the door by 7:30, the perils of medical school, but if she were here, she'd probably be joining in on the snooze fest. Either that or she might curl up against Tucker on the couch. She's done so a couple times since he moved in. No sexy stuff, just sharing his space and silently reminding him that he has people who care about him. Once or twice he might've teared up at the simple action, but Tucker will take those secrets to the grave.

Still, Tucker's left with a surprise day off, and nothing to fill the hours except thinking about life, and Tucker's not drunk enough for personal revelations.

Like Wash. Wash who hasn't been by Blood Gulch as often since his accident. Wash who's dating a fucking psycho. Wash who needs caffeine to dislodge that stick from his ass and remind him how to be human.

And Felix. Felix who is gone, or at the very least keeping his distance because Tucker hasn't seen hide nor hair of him since the day in the café, but he still tries not to go out in public on his own. Not because he's scared. Tucker's not scared. He's just not an idiot.

Sunlight tips over the arm rest, streaming into his eyes. Tucker winces and throws an arm over his face, groaning. God, this is such bullshit. What right does Felix have, hanging over Tucker like a ghost and plaguing his every thought? Making him second guess his sanity? _Fuck that! You're Lavernius Tucker. You made a bad decision, and you've paid for it. Now, you just gotta put one foot in front of the other and pull yourself back up._

Even as his heart beats faster and his fingers and toes go numb at the prospect, Tucker kicks off the sheets and gets out of bed. For fuck's sake, it's the first day off he's had in ages, and he doesn't have an abusive sack of shit keeping him tethered to the house. He's gonna have a fuckin' awesome day!

#

Massaging his temples, Wash thumps his head against the tile wall and regrets...everything. What possessed him to think this was a good idea? How did Sarge convince him this was the best course of actions?

"Got another latte, Wash," Simmons calls from the register, holding out a marked cup. "Decaf soy latte with an extra shot and cream."

Wash glowers into the grout, bangs his head in the vain hope that it might knock him out of this reality and into another one. But no, when he opens his eyes, he see the same red and blue checkered tiles. Without a word, Wash snatches the cup out of Simmons' hands and heads to the coffee machines, following the steps Sarge drilled into his head last night and Church just shrugged off this morning.

As the milk steams, Wash shake his head. Why the hell do so many people order ridiculous contradictory drinks? Seriously. Take the current monstrosity. Decaf soy latte with an extra shot and cream. Decaf? Not his cup of tea, but Wash understands some people just want the taste of coffee without the kick. So why would you add a shot of espresso? And yes, lactose intolerance and/or veganism are facts of life for lots of people....so what the fuck are you doing adding cream!

But Wash just sucks in a big breath and focuses in on the task in front of him. Sure, the customers might irk him and his coworkers might be....frustrating to say the very least, but for the first time in ages, his day hasn't zipped past in the blink of an eye leaving him twitchy and restless. That has to count for something.

The door dings open, and Simmons says, "Welcome to Blood Gulch Coffee Company. What can we-- Tucker, you're not supposed to be here. It's your day off!"

Wash jolts, and scalding milk slops onto his hand. He doesn't even wince, his gaze flying to the front door. And sure enough, there's Tucker, his dreads spilling over his shoulders, an old polaroid camera hanging around his neck, his big dark eyes fixed right on Wash. Cheeks flushing, Wash turns back to the latte in front of him, hissing at the bright red patch of skin on the back of his hand. Christ, that stings.

By the time Wash finishes the decaf soy abomination, Tucker's standing at the register, gaping between Simmons and Wash, mouth flapping wordlessly like a beached guppy.

"Tucker? You can't be having a stroke. Fainting mid-shift is totally my thing!"

Wash bites the corner of his mouth to stop himself from grinning. Well, Tucker with his foot in his mouth. Honestly, this shitty ambulance crash of a first day might be worth it to see Tucker at a loss for words.

Too bad it doesn't last for long. Tucker shakes himself, shoots Simmons a reproving look, and says, "Wanted a drink I didn't have to mix myself." His eyes move to Wash, brow furrowed. "What the fuck, dude? You disappear for a week and then get a job behind the counter?"

"Something like that," Wash admits, playing with the edge of his faded black apron so he doesn't reach back and rub his neck anxiously. Honestly, it's just Tucker. If Wash is gonna be working here at Blood Gulch, he's gonna have to get used to seeing Tucker for more than five minutes at a time. "Sarge said you guys needed someone to help cover odd shifts. He failed to mention that being a barista is nothing like waiting tables."

Tucker laughs, his dark cheeks glowing. "Fuck yeah, dude. I'd give my left nut for a cushy wait-staff gig after busting my ass here."

Before Wash can poke holes in Tucker's "cushy wait-staff" theory, Simmons butts in, "Are you gonna order a drink or just bother our new trainee?"

Without breaking eye contact with Wash, Tucker cocks his head to the side. "You made a 'Ghost in the Emp' yet?"

Wash's brow furrows. "Emp?"

"Ye-eah," Simmons adds, his voice cracking. "You know, a weaponized electromagnetic pulse?"

"You mean EMP?"

Tucker and Simmons both look at him like he's grown a third head. "Uh, you mean, Emp," Simmons offers cautiously.

Frowning, Wash angles his head and puts on his best "I'm a Vet, dammit, I know what I'm talking about" expression. "It's an acronym. Eee-emm-pee."

"But that's not--"

Tucker leans across the counter and claps a hand over Simmons' mouth to shut him up. "Whatever. Has anyone ordered that drink yet?"

Eyes narrowed, Wash thinks over the overcrowded hours and comes up empty. "Well....no."

What can only be described as a shit-eating grin spreads across Tucker's face. Wash's heart doesn't lurch at the sight, nor do his pants become momentarily constricting, but he can hide behind his apron. "What size?" He asks as he reaches for a cup.

"Small."

"Tucker!" Simmons says, his eyes blowing wide. "Don't be such a--"

"It's just a small Ghost in the Emp," Tucker interrupts, throwing Wash a grin.

"Right," Wash says, grabbing a small cup and retreating back behind the coffee machines to the recipe master list. A small coffee. Can't be that difficult, right?

Wrong. So wrong. Wash groans midway through his third failed attempt at what he's terming the Drink from Hell. "Jesus Christ," he curses, almost wishing another customer would walk in so he had an excuse to abandon this shit show and pour someone a cup of coffee. But, no, the shop is empty save for Tucker leaning against the counter, watching Wash with a look of thinly veiled glee. "I hate you," Wash snaps in Tucker's general direction as he starts again.

"Now is that any way to treat a customer?"

Wash glares. When Tucker throws him a wink, Wash doesn't suck in a breath and flush like a strawberry. He _doesn't._

"You okay, Wash?" Simmons asks. "You look really red."

"I'm fine," he grits out, quietly cursing Tucker's very existence.

Five panic-inducing minutes later, Wash slides a cup across the counter into Tucker's waiting hand. One brow cocked, Tucker lifts the cup to his lips, breaths the bitter-sweet blend of dark chocolate, coffee, and vanilla cream, and takes a sip. His eyes drift closed. He sighs and takes another drink. "Wow, Wash. Not too shabby."

Wash's voice sticks in his throat, but his cheeks flush darker with pride. It's stupid. Really, so so dumb. He shouldn't give a crap what Tucker thinks of his coffee, but it's his first day and Wash, well, he never thought he'd end up mixing coffee, but maybe this place, these people, maybe they could be good for him. Maybe Blood Gulch is exactly what he needs.

And of course, _of fucking course,_ in the thirty minutes after Wash's grand revelation, Tucker teases him about everything from how unflattering his drab gray apron is, to how he needs to touch up his roots, to how he fumbles over putting together a few coffee orders. But that's not the worst of it. Not thirty minutes after Wash has let himself start to relax into the ebb and flow of Blood Gulch, the front door slam open, and an imposing figure fills up the doorway. Wash's hands go numb. Yeah, he knows that figure. All too well.

Locus storms up to the coffee bar, his brow drawn low over his eyes and his mouth set in a grim, angry line. Like a bull charging at a matador, and Wash's feet are too dumb to bolt out the back door. All he can think is one uninspired circle of _"no, no, no,"_ as Simmons squeaks something about 'health codes' and 'employees only behind the bar.' Locus doesn't even blink, just shoulders past and grabs Wash's forearm.

Tucker shouts something, but it sounds faraway. Everything around Wash swims, distorted by fog or distance or reality buckling. Locus has his hand on Wash. But Wash doesn't want that. Not any of this. Tucker doesn't belong at a distance when there's a fight going down. Tucker's gonna throw himself into the fray and get himself hurt. Or worse.

Wide eyed, Wash comes back to himself when Locus tugs him toward the door. Hands shaking, he digs in his heels.

Locus stills for just a moment, his gaze sweeping from his grip on Wash's arm to Wash's braced posture to Wash's face, his brow pinched in confusion. "We're going home," he growls.

"No," Wash says weakly.

Locus' hand clenches hard enough to bruise. "No?"

"I'm not going with you." Wash squares his shoulders and holds his chin as high as he can manage. "Your apartment's not my home."

"Then where is?"

Wash's mouth snaps shut, his gaze falling down to his shoes. "I... It's..."

Tutting, Locus cups Wash's cheek with his other hand, his thumb soothing along Wash's skin, soft and steady. Wash leans into the touch; two-plus years of conditioning will do that. Locus rests his forehead against Wash's, whispering, "Come home, David. Let me take care of you. Let me make everything better."

Spiraling, Wash's brain throws out a disjointed mix of memories. Curled up in his cot at military school, shaking himself to sleep. Trembling when he woke up alone in an army hospital. Reading South's report about the IED he didn't spot, the bomb that took out their convoy, that killed his squad. Stumbling out of too many bars, too wasted to remember his own name, but not drunk enough to drown out the anger, the guilt. Warm arms surrounding him, fingers threading through his own as Locus moves over him, inside him, filling him with want and warmth and support.

_"Someone's moving up in the world."_

_"I told you never to come back here."... "He was overstepping his boundaries with my mate."_

_"And to think, you used to say such sweet things about me."_

"Easier," Wash says, his eyes unfocused as too many memories swirl around him. "Not better."

Something pinches around his arm. All too quickly, South's grief-stricken face fills his vision. _"It's your fault, rookie. If you'd done your goddamn job, our team would still be alive. Useless, stupid shit."_ And he feels her phantom hand curling around his neck, dragging him farther from this world. He prays she'll succeed, not for the first time.

"You're not thinking clearly, David. You're behaving like a child. Don't make me remind you of everything I've done for you."

Wash's breath rushes in and out fast, but his chest feels too tight to absorb any air. Everything feels thin and foggy around him, distant and untouchable. He sees the world around him moving, pulling him toward the door, and his feet can only follow. Who was he kidding? He doesn't belong. Not here, not anywhere. But if Locus wants to keep him, who is Wash to say 'no?' After all, Locus is his soulmate, right?

But before the door reaches him, Wash sees a flash of dark dreads and hears a familiar "Fuck this." He blinks, his brain settling just in time to see Tucker push himself in between Locus and Wash, breaking Locus' grip and shoving the bigger man toward the door. _Tucker?_

Locus draws up to his full height, glaring down at Wash, at Tucker. Wash's stomach clenches. "Stand aside. This does not concern you."

"Don't think so, dude," Tucker cuts in, standing his ground despite the eight-plus inches Locus has on him. "Wash is my friend. He told you to fuck off, and you start dragging him out of here. Yeah, I think that's about the point any decent person would step in. Now back the fuck off!"

Rolling his neck, Locus mutters, "I warned you not to meddle." Without so much as a breath, Locus lunges.

Before Wash can even flinch, Tucker shifts. His fist flies, hitting Locus square in the jaw. Wide eyed, Locus stumbles back against the door. He lifts a hand to his lips, his fingers coming away bloody. Locus glowers. "You'll regret that."

Tucker doesn't so much as cringe. Instead, he shifts his weight and grits out, "Dude, you're not welcome here. You've harassed Wash, tried to forcibly remove him, and now tried to attack us. Get the fuck out before Simmons calls the cops. He's just aching for another authority figure to suck up to."

"Hey!"

Locus turns his glare on Wash, and for half a second, fear sparks at the back of Wash's mind. He's not gonna go. Locus won't be swayed by logic or reason. Locus will do whatever it takes to get to Wash, even if it means going through every idiot that gets in his way. Right now, that means Tucker. A plea wells up in Wash's throat, but he doesn't know what it will be: _"Please just go,"_ or _"Please let me go."_ But then Locus sneers, kicks open the door, and storms out, leaving an eerie tension hanging in his wake.

Frozen, Wash can only stare after Locus' retreating shadow, afraid that if he moves it will draw Locus back. His throat bobs. His hands clench. It can't be over so easily. It can't.

Tucker sighs, shaking the tension out of his limbs as he turns to face Wash, his expression muddled relief and worry. Holding his left hand up warily, Tucker reaches for Wash's shoulder, rubbing it firmly. "Hey, Wash. You in there?"

Jolting, Wash blinks and flinches away from the touch, no matter how Tucker telegraphs his motions. His eyes dart back to the door, but nope, still empty. Breath stuck in his throat, Wash exhales. It's.... it's actually over.

"C'mon, lets sit you down," Tucker says, gesturing toward the back of the café, keeping a careful distance between them. Wash falls into a chair, his breath still moving too fast. Tucker sits across from him, his eyes following Wash's every motion. "Just take a breather."

"I'm not some damsel," Wash snaps.

Brow furrowed and hands raised peacefully, Tucker says, "Okay, crazy man says what?"

Jaw clenching, Wash shakes his head and replies tersely, "I don't need saving by some prince charming." His hands ball against the table. Wash glares down at his stupid, shaking hands and curses. "I was a soldier. I can save myself."

"Dude," Tucker says not exactly cautiously but not aggressively either. "I didn't think you couldn't. I didn't hit that asshole for you. I mean, I did, but not just for you. I mean, shit." When Wash looks up, Tucker is rubbing the back of his neck anxiously with his not-Isaac hand. Looking out the window, Tucker goes on. "That guy came in here a few weeks back, after you got hit, and said I needed to leave you alone."

"What?"

"Yeah," Tucker says, shrugging. "Seemed kinda odd at the time, but I figured he was just a jealous ex or something, but...." Tucker fidgets in his chair, still not meeting Wash's gaze. "I was in a bad place when he first came in here, so I cracked and let him intimidate me. But I'm sick of feeling like a wuss. Like a weak little shit. Like I couldn't protect myself, much less the people I care about."

 _"The people I care about."_ Wash's heart flutters a little at the thought, his cheeks warming.

Tucker goes on. "I'm ready to be strong. So, no, I didn't hit big scary for you. I hit that asshole for me."

"Oh." Wash struggles to contain a teary smile. Because he shouldn't find that story endearing, but he does. The way Tucker can't quite meet his eye, or fidgets like he wants to do anything besides have this heart to heart but he talks just the same, or the way his voice warms when he says he's ready to be strong. If Wash were standing, his knees would be wobbling under him. All of it. His mouth's dry, his stomach's churning, his hands ache to thread through Tucker's dreads and hold him still while Wash slides into his lap and kisses him stupid.

But if he moves right now, he might collapse under the weight of his shock and relief. For the first time in years, Wash breathes easy. Ducking to hide his flush, Wash says, "Good."

Snorting, Tucker leans back in his chair for a moment before he hisses and cradles his hand to his chest. Wash's eyes narrow. His dark hand looks faintly flushed and his fingers are swelling. "Did you hurt your hand?"

"Nah," Tucker says nonchalantly but breaks the illusion when he waves his hand and winces. He pauses briefly and adds, "Okay, maybe a bit. I can feel my heartbeat in my knuckles. But that's normal, right?"

"Jesus Christ, Tucker."

#

_...December..._

For his chivalry on Wash's behalf, Tucker is rewarded with three stainless steel pins in his hand. For six weeks, he's stuck sitting on a collapsible stool behind the register, giving customers cheery one liners and not-so-slightly doped smiles. His aqua cast earns him more than a few sympathetic looks from the ladies; when he recounts his daring rescue, they swoon and simper and sigh. If Tucker didn't have his eye set on a certain cranky blonde barista, he'd be swimming in tail. Living that high life.

Instead, he's stuck dealing with Wash hovering every time they're on shift together, pivoting between exasperated coworker and overbearing mother hen almost effortlessly. Seriously. One minute, Wash flushes angrily and looks ready to smack Tucker for chatting up a pretty redhead with nice cans and a scowl; the next, Wash is at his side when Tucker accidentally bumps his hand against the counter, brow pinched and ice pack at the ready. Honestly, after six weeks of back and forth, Tucker doesn't know what to do.

"Oh my God, you are so fucked," Grif blurts from the driver's seat.

"Huh?"

While the stoplight still winks red at them, Grif lolls his head over and shoots Tucker a look of barely contained. "Dude, you've sighed about eight times since we left the apartment."

"And?"

"And do you have any idea how much you've been sighing the last six weeks?" When Tucker doesn't comment, Grif goes on. "A metric fuck-ton. It's really fuckin' annoying."

Brow furrowed, Tucker asks, "So how does that make me fucked? Pretty sure if I was getting any action, Kai would be standing in the kitchen cheering me on. Or critiquing my technique. She does that sometimes."

"Dude! Little sister! Things I do not need to know!" Grif speeds ahead as the light turns green, whipping the wheel and making Tucker's head thump against the window as petty retribution. "But seriously, you've gotta do something about your raging boner for Blondie. Like I said, it's getting old."

Tucker glares before he slumps against the passenger door, pressing his cheek to the window, but it does little to calm him. He and Wash have been spending more and more shifts together, sure, and in the cramped space behind the counter, awkward bumping happens. But Wash still has flinches every time something moves to quick. And Tucker hears his heart thunder in his ears any time someone handles a kitchen knife with less than extreme care--he doesn't even go near the back when Caboose pulls kitchen duty. Sure, spending six weeks in close proximity is plenty of time to know what he wants, to form a pretty decent idea of what Wash wants too, but they both have too many underlying issues to work through. Jumping into bed would be a bad, _bad_ idea, no matter how much he wants to wrap himself around Wash and never let go.

Tucker sighs again, breath fogging the glass.

Grif snickers. "Totally. Fucked."

"Shut up!"

Removing his cast goes smoothly. Thank God he's still covered by his mom's health insurance, or he'd be so fucking screwed by medical bills. At least now he's only mostly screwed. When the cast comes off, he moves his fingers tentatively. The skin feels kinda gummy from six weeks with minimal air contact, there's a surgical scar across his knuckles where the pins went in, but Tucker beams. He can move again. And he got a badass scar to boot.

Afterward, Grif drops Tucker off beside his shitty little Honda before parking and heading back upstairs. Probably going back to bed since he's not due at the café til late this afternoon. Tucker grins to himself as he starts his car. Thank God Grif and Kai are okay with him crashing at their place so long as he chips in on rent and cooks a few nights a week. It's cramped, and their place perpetually smells like formaldehyde and stale beer, but it's hands down the best living situation he's had all his adult life. Way better than rooming with Church, or that weird older guy who tried to make Tucker call him "daddy," and compared to Felix, living with Grif and Kai wins. No contest.

Tucker makes good time to work, parks in the employee lot Blood Gulch Coffee Co. shares with a family run laundromat and an antique furniture store. He even weasels his way into a prime parking spot, singing along to some top forty garbage Wash and Church give him shit for liking, but whatever. Those two screechy sticks in the mud are just jealous they can't carry a tune.

He wanders in through the back door, grabs his apron off the hook, and starts tying it when Church hollers from the kitchen, "You're late."

"You knew I was gonna be late. I had a doctor's appointment. Can't deprive the world of my glorious phalanges any longer." To punctuate his point, Tucker waves his newly liberated hands in front of Church's face as Church works out next week's schedule.

Church sputters. "Hey, asshole, I'm working here. If you want an audience, go show Washington. Not like I haven't had to deal with him fluttering around worrying about you enough."

Tucker sticks out his tongue for good measure before scrubbing his hands in the employee sink and heading up to the storefront, ready to actually be useful for the first time in too long. And, of course, the café is empty. Actually empty. Not a soul inside apart from Caboose galloping around the tables astride a blessedly dry mop and Wash leaning behind the counter, thumbing through an actual newspaper. Tucker sidles up beside Wash and hip-checks him, just to see if he'll squeak. Wash only gasps and rights himself, glaring sideways at Tucker when he plays coy. "Jesus, Wash. Overreact much?"

Wash glowers, eyes snapping back to his newspaper. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure," Tucker trails off, drumming his hands against the counter. "Been this quiet all morning?"

"No. It was steady up until ten minutes ago. Guess everyone realized you'd arrived and decided to scatter."

"Bitch, please, I'm fuckin' delightful. Winning personality, dexterity out the wazoo, a bird that just won't quit."

"Yes, Tucker," Wash says blandly. "You're a total package."

"Bow chicka bow wow."

Wash side-eyes him for half a second. "Appointment go well?"

"Fuck yeah! Check it." Tucker shoves his hand palm first in Wash's face, waggling his fingers to prove his point. "Even got a pretty cool scar to show for it."

But Wash's eyes go wide, his gaze zeroing in on Tucker's wrist. His bare wrist. Because he hasn't worn his bracelets in over a month thanks to the cast, and they're safe and sound in his duffle. Tucker's just waving his mark around for all the world to see. Normally, Tucker wouldn't give two shits if someone saw his soulmarks, but people are total prudes and treat flashing a mark like it's a criminal misdemeanor, so Tucker plays along at work so no snooty customers get him fired.

Just as Tucker moves to hide his mark, Wash reaches out for his wrist, misses, and smacks Tucker in the face. "Jesus," Tucker hisses, "right in the money maker." Maybe, just maybe, he can turn this around and make Wash forget about his mark.

Wash looks flushed enough, it's possible he'll let it drop. Ears cherry red. Mouth tipped open in a mix of horror and shock. But his eyes are still fixed on the back of Tucker's wrist. His right wrist. His 'David' mark. Tucker blanches.

"Oh." Tucker scrubs the back of his neck. If his life were a movie, right now would be the moment where he'd open his mouth and make some bullshit excuse about respecting boundaries or being emotionally unprepared for a conversation with his potential soulmate, something charming and sincere and midway through Wash would cut off his babble with a kiss, a sweeping, passionate, awe-inspiring example of understanding and eagerness and love.

But this is not a movie. This is real life. So all Tucker can do is stare down at his shoes and mumble out, "So, yeah, that's a thing."

 And Wash, Wash laughs. Brow furrowed, Tucker peeks up to check that Wash hasn't had a stroke or something, because laughter does not seem like the right reaction to this moment. But no, Wash is just standing there, laughing. No, that's not quite right. Wash doesn't laugh. He cackles. Voice cracking, breath coming in thin little gasps, cheeks burning redder and redder, eyes going wider and wider. Honestly, he looks like an overfilled balloon ready to pop at the slightest pressure. Oh shit.

"Of course," Wash gasps out between ragged breathes, his voice thin. "Of course." His shoulder shake. "Of course." A sob breaks from his throat.

Moving on instinct, Tucker steps into Wash's bulk and wraps his arms around him. Wash collapses onto him, shaking from head to toe, arms wrapping tight around Tucker. Tucker flinches momentarily, but exhales quickly. _This is Wash. This is your friend. He's not gonna hurt you. You're okay. He just needs a shoulder for just a sec._ On tiptoe, Tucker works an arm up and soothes circles between Wash's shoulder blades. "Hey, it's okay," Tucker says automatically. "You're okay. Just calm down."

Wash shudders against him, another sob bursting out of him. Tucker's heart aches. He rubs a little more firmly and keeps talking. "You're okay. It's okay. I mean, nothing has to change. You-- I don't expect anything, Wash. I just wanna be your friend. I just want you to be okay. To be, fuck, I don't know, happy?"

For a long time, Wash shakes apart in Tucker's arms, until his sobs ebb away and he stills. Tucker thanks every god in the universe that no customers have come in, that Caboose had the decency to slink away to the kitchen, that Church hasn't appeared in the kitchen doorway like the asshole he is. Honestly, if Tucker could, he'd have this moment last forever, just himself and Wash curled together, standing between each other and the world. Fuck, that'd be nice. Better than nice. Damn near perfect.

When Wash's breath evens, Tucker rocks back ever so slightly, only to feel Wash's arms tighten around him, one hand fisting in his shirt, pinning him in place. Tucker's heart rabbits into his throat as Wash looks up, his face flushed and tearstained and grinning that small stupid grin Tucker remembers from halfway across the street before that stupid car slammed into Wash's stupid self. Sniffling, Wash says, "A thing?"

Tucker flushes. "Shut up."

"That was the worst pick up line ever. Of all time."

"Shut up!"

"And 'Lavernius?' You went twenty-something years saddled with that and didn't get bullied into submission?"

"God, I hate you."

Wash just beams.

It's pretty fuckin' great.

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope yall enjoyed! Come chat with me (or scream at me) on Tumblr @birdsbeesandlemonadetrees

**Author's Note:**

> Questions, comments, and concrit welcome. Come chat with me on Tumblr (@birdsbeesandlemonadetrees)


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